


Birds of a Feather

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2019-11-28 08:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18205847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: What if… Mark had not discovered what he'd discovered on that fateful Christmas Day?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> …flock together, _n'est-ce pas_?
> 
> Disclaimer: Standing on the shoulders of giants, etc. etc.

_"Logic will get you from A to Z; imagination will get you everywhere."_

_—Albert Einstein_

"I don't know why you insist on going to these dreadful things."

Mark tightened his grip on the steering wheel and focused his attention on the snow- and slush-covered road. "I told you," he said, "it's a family tradition."

She snorted a cynical laugh. "You're not that far from forty, for God's sake, and your family is just your parents."

"I actually _like_ my parents," Mark said in return, feeling the tension building in his jaw. Rather than say what he wanted to say—"Why did you agree to come?" at the forefront—he remained silent. He didn't want to start a row in time to arrive at the front door.

"I should just have bloody stayed home," she said under her breath, turning her head to look out the window.

He stopped the car by the house and before he switched it off, he turned to look at his wife. She steadfastly refused to look at him, or so it seemed, and in that moment he had a chance to study her features, locked in quiet fury—brow wrinkled, eyes fixed forward—before she turned to look at him and her expression changed, softened, became pretty again, the bright winter light shining in her eyes.

"Sorry," she said, her voice betraying the remnants of her annoyance. "I just don't get the impression that they like me very much."

His own irritation had not quite settled down yet, and again he bit back the impulse to say something he'd regret, that would touch off an argument: _You don't make it easy_. At that moment, he didn't much like her, either. "Come on," he said, pushing open his car door. "They're going to have started the buffet."

With a quick roll of the eyes she pushed her own door open and together they walked to the front door. He knew, as was always the case, by the time someone answered the door, they would be the picture of marital bliss, or at least as close to bliss as they ever managed.

He was greeted with a pair of bright blue eyes and a smile, their hostess for the day, Pam Jones. "Mark! So _nice_ to see you." Those eyes turned to the woman beside him; the smile flattened out but at the last moment was propped up for appearances. "And Jo." After a beat she added as she stepped aside, "Come in, come in. We're about to eat. Would you like some wine?"

"Yes." He hoped he didn't sound too eager, but he needed wine more than he could possibly express.

In short order a generous glass of red wine was pressed into his hand, and he in turn took an extended draw from it. Immediately it soothed his nerves. He was not quite ready for food yet, though people were queuing up; he decided that since he'd seemed to keen to make it to the buffet in time, he'd better queue up too. "Jo," he said. "Come on, let's get something to eat."

"You know I hate that," she hissed as they walked to the line.

Being led off to eat? Told what to do? He wondered which.

She then continued, "I hated it when I was a little girl, and I hate it more now that I'm a grown woman. Use my full name, for Christ's sake."

Her full name was, in his opinion, like gargling on a bag of rocks, but again Mark did not offer that incendiary opinion, for it did no good to launch into a row in the middle of the party. "I can't control what other people call you," he said coolly. "You should correct them right away if you don't like it."

"You were the one who introduced me to them that way in the first place," she continued in that hissing whisper. "I didn't want to embarrass _you_."

He clenched his teeth. "There's really nothing wrong with 'Jo.'"

"Perhaps I should call you 'Markee' a few times and see—"

She stopped, took a plate, and smiled to Una, who was a mutual friend of the hostess as well as his mother's. Una then scooped in a generous portion of curry.

"Smells wonderful," Mark said, taking a plate for himself and holding it out for food. It was no exaggeration; the moment the scent hit his nose he realised how utterly ravenous he actually was. "Let's sit with my parents and say hi."

"Fine." Such joyless resignation.

Mark was mostly quiet while his mother Elaine and father Malcolm made an herculean effort to engage Jo in conversation; although she participated, it was minimal at best. It was clear her presence was only to satisfy an obligation; clear that her perception that no one liked her would continue to guarantee that no one liked her. He looked at her—dark brown eyes; glossy, perfectly-coiffed short black hair; the elegant curve of her throat and the delicate way she held her wine glass—and tried to remember exactly what it had felt like to be so in love (or to think he was, anyway) to have wanted to marry her.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother raise her glass to such a height that he knew she must have been emptying it. He jumped on the chance to step away by offering to get her something more to drink.

"Yes, Mark, some water please," she said. She looked sad; for herself? For him? He took the glass and went off to the kitchen, anticipating peace and quiet for a few blessed moments.

As he pushed open the door he heard a gasp before he saw anyone, smelled a whiff of smoke and felt a cool burst of air before hearing the window drop down to be shut. In the corner, practically behind the door and beside the recently closed window, was a woman furiously stubbing out a fag end. She was dressed in a tight knit top, a black miniskirt and tights, and knee-high black boots. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

She shook her head, then looked up to him. "No, I'm sorry. Shouldn't be smoking in house," she said. "Just trying to escape the inevitable. Oh. Unless you're Jared." She flushed bright red.

"No," he said. "I'm Mark."

"Oh, thank God," she said. "Bridget." She tilted her head. "Hm. Don't suppose you want to be my boyfriend?"

He raised his brow at the audacity of the lovely blonde before him.

"I mean—" she began, blushing again.

"I'd be delighted," he interrupted in his droll amusement, "but I don't think my wife would approve."

"I meant _pretend_ it," she said. "But, ah. Wife. I take your point."

There was something very familiar about her, particularly her eyes, which were as blue as—"Are you Mrs Jones' daughter?"

She nodded. "I am," she said, "and she is determined that I meet Jared, who at this moment may already be here."

He smiled, and realised it might well have been the first genuine smile he'd offered all day. "Need to get a drink for my mother, but I can make enquiries for you so that you don't have to hide in the kitchen all day."

"I am getting a bit peckish," she confessed. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not," he said. "One moment."

He went back out with the glass of cold water for his mother and asked casually, "Has someone called Jared shown up?"

She smiled, which convinced him that perhaps Bridget had had a similar conversation with her. "I think I overheard Pam say he couldn't come, after all."

"Right," he said, then turned to his wife. "I'll fetch us more wine, shall I?"

"I don't think you should have any more since you're driving," said Jo, "but I'd like another glass of red." She held up her glass. He knew what the comment really signified: _we're not staying much longer_.

He returned to the kitchen and found his new acquaintance in the same place he'd last seen her. "Well?" she asked with a hopeful expression.

"The coast is clear, as they say." 

"Thank God," she said. She grabbed her glass of wine as he filled Jo's.

"Would you like—oh, you have white."

"Yeah, I'll just top it up a bit." She pulled open the refrigerator door. "Feel like I can relax a little at last. Ever since I split with… well, we were long term, and my mother feels like there's nothing to it but to get back up on that horse and fix me up with the most pathetic sad sacks."

He chuckled; she blushed. "It's all right," he said, before she could apologise. Surely she was exaggerating.

The two of them emerged from the kitchen; Bridget went straight for the food, while Mark joined his parents and wife again. As he handed his mother the wineglass, she asked, "I see you met Pam's daughter, Bridget?"

"Yes," Mark said; he didn't know why he felt guilty for the admission. They'd only talked, after all, but he knew his wife was a bit possessive of him, a bit jealous, even though he'd never given any cause for her to be that way. Perhaps it was more protective on her part, considering how she viewed his status in their society circles; other women, in Jo's eyes, were potential poachers.

"I haven't yet met Bridget," said Jo. She turned to look just as Bridget was licking curry sauce from her thumb; Mark saw the fleeting look of disapproval.

"Mark and Bridget were friends as children," Elaine explained, which surprised Mark. "Played together, but then her family moved off, Mark went off to Eton and that was the end of that."

" _Bridget!_ "

Pam Jones' voice sliced through the chatter; all heads turned towards the front door, including Bridget's as she stood there with a plate of turkey curry in hand. Pam stood there with a tall, wiry, skittish-looking fellow with untamed curly hair that could best be described as 'round'. He was smiling; when he clapped eyes on Bridget, the smile broadened to one Mark thought best described as a leer.

"Look!" Pam said excitedly. "Jared's come, after all!"

A stiff, fixed grin found Bridget's face, and since she didn't move Pam and Jared went towards her.

_She looks like a deer caught in the headlights_ , Mark thought. _A sitting duck._ He wanted to help, but what could he do? He couldn't well pretend he was Bridget's boyfriend, not when everyone in the room knew he was married… not to mention the added difficulty of the presence of his wife. 

He watched an overly gleeful Pam wander away. As they stood there, they talked—or rather, he talked to her while she shot longing glances at her plate of curry. Mark continued to watch the interaction and saw her growing discomfort at his eagerness, then her look of horrified surprise as he touched her arm. He decided to take it upon himself to intervene, if for no other reason so that she could eat her food… but mostly because Jared didn't seem to have a clue about personal boundaries.

He stood and pardoned himself then walked towards where they were. He didn't know what he was going to say or do, but figured it would come to him as needed. "Hi, Bridget," he said with a smile. "Nice to see you again."

"Mark, hi, Mark," she said desperately. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Who's your friend here?"

She turned her eyes to Jared. "This is Jared. He works with computers."

"Jared. Nice to meet you," he said. "So, Jared, your job must be a bit lonely."

Jared looked taken aback. "Well, no, there are lots of people around."

"Oh, my apologies," he said. "I just assumed…" He trailed off, hoping Jared would take the bait. He did.

"Assumed what?" Jared asked.

"Well, that with people around," Mark said in an all-boys-together sort of way, "you'd be better able to read social cues, particularly those regarding women." Jared furrowed his brows. Mark explained, "They don't usually look like a trapped rabbit if one's advances are welcome."

The poor fellow seemed genuinely perplexed. "But I thought…" he began. "Her mother said…"

"I'm sorry if my mother misled you, Jared," Bridget spoke up. "She's… just trying to be helpful," she said diplomatically. 

"But _you_ didn't say anything," Jared said.

"I'm sorry for that too," she said. "I should have, I know. But I didn't want to…" She briefly glanced up at Mark. "…hurt your feelings."

Jared looked like a wounded puppy. "It's all right, I guess," he said dejectedly. "I should have realised you weren't. You're out of my league."

Bridget sputtered a light laugh. "That's the kindest thing anyone's said about me in an age, Jared, even if it is a ridiculous lie, so thanks." She offered a smile. "Why don't you go and get something to eat?"

Jared pottered off towards the buffet. 

"Thank you for that, Mark," she said. "I really didn't want to hurt his feelings."

"I know, but if you're not firm enough, he may view it as encouragement and just try again," Mark said.

She pouted. "I'm too soft at times," she said. "I just didn't want to have a post-mortem on my failed relationship with a total stranger." Mark nodded in understanding, though mused to himself that she'd done nearly that very thing with him in the kitchen. With a thoughtful expression, she then added, "Perhaps next time I'll just knee 'em and make a run for it."

He laughed aloud, surprising himself. "Well, at least you're free to eat your dinner now," he said. 

"In relative peace, until my mother finds out what's happened," she said. "Thanks again."

Mark joined his parents and wife once more, and ignored the icy looks from Jo.

"All settled?" asked his father.

"Yes," Mark said. "Helped to clear up that confusion."

"Very good of you," said Elaine. "I've told Pam time and again she needs to leave the girl alone, but she insists that the best way to bounce back is to get right back at it."

"Always the defender of the downtrodden, Mark," said Jo in as icy a tone as her look. "What was so funny, anyway?"

"Hi." It was Bridget with her plate and a glass of wine. "Do you mind if I sit there?" She indicated the spot next to Elaine on the sofa.

"Of course I don't mind, dear," said Elaine. "Plenty of room."

Mark got the impression that Bridget knew his parents well enough, so he took it upon himself, once she got settled into the seat, to make introductions with his wife. "Bridget, this is my wife, Jocasta." He glanced over to see a smile play on his wife's lips. "Jocasta, this is Bridget, Pam's daughter. The hostess."

He expected some expression of surprise from her regarding Jo's unusual full first name, but she only blinked once or twice rapidly. "It's nice to meet you," Bridget said, extending a hand for a polite shake.

"Nice to meet you, too," Jo replied, taking it.

Bridget then brought her brows together. "Unless it happens to be we've met before. You look very familiar." 

"I don't think so," said Jo. "I think I might have remembered."

"Hmm," she said, then stirred her food with her fork before loading it up with chunks of turkey and potato dripping with curry gravy. She'd just about got that first bite up to her mouth when she stopped suddenly; her eyes flashed towards Jo again as she slowly lowered the fork. "Oh," she said, her skin blanching a little, her voice very quiet. "Yes, I'm sure you're right."

"Are you feeling okay?" Mark asked.

"I suddenly… don't feel very hungry. If you'll pardon me, I'm… just going for a lie down."

Once she'd taken her leave, plate and all, Elaine said, "Well, that was certainly strange." Mark agreed—very strange indeed.

"Mark, I'd really like to get home before the snow starts up again," Jo said.

There was no point in arguing, so he nodded, adding, "I'll just take our dishes to the kitchen."

When he entered once more, he found Bridget in there smoking again by the open window, her nearly untouched plate on the countertop beside her. There wasn't any indication she'd noticed he'd entered, no turning to see him come in, no effort to put out the cigarette.

"Everything really all right?" he asked.

"Fine," she said listlessly, not looking away from whatever she was staring at out the window. He didn't believe her, but he didn't want to press the issue. She then turned to him; her expression underscored that she was not in fact as fine as she claimed. "How long have you been married?"

It seemed an odd question, but he didn't see any harm in answering. "A little over a year," he said. "Why?"

She glanced down in obvious thoughtful introspection for a moment, her eyes moving as if reading a rapidly scrolling text, before she looked up again and spoke. "It isn't important." Her words had as much credibility as her 'fine' statement. "You'd better go back out there." She drew from her cigarette again, and he could not help but notice the way her hand was trembling.

He wondered if she was really going to sit in the kitchen and smoke for the rest of the party, but also realised he should do as suggested before his wife came looking. "Well, we're going now, so goodbye, Bridget," he said. "Nice to see you again."

She nodded. "Goodbye, Mark. Nice to see you too." Then, after a moment's thought, she added, "Take care of yourself."

It was a common statement, harmless enough as words go, but the way she said it… it was as if she were imparting a benediction to a doomed man. He smiled a small smile, then left the room.

Within minutes they were saying goodbye, then were back on the road for London. She barely spoke a full sentence to him for the entire drive, then announced just outside of London that she'd arranged to meet girlfriends for a drink and would be heading out again. He was frankly a bit relieved. He was looking forward to a night of peace and quiet after the tension of the party.

He did wonder about Bridget's reaction, tried to figure out exactly what his wife could have done to evoke it. He had to think something unwelcoming in Jo's expression must have done the trick—though he had not seen anything alarming, he was well used to her expressions.

………

Mark hadn't given the Turkey Curry Buffet night much thought and certainly hadn't expected to again, least of all spurred by a visit a few weeks later to the publishing house at which his good friend Daniel was editor-in-chief. He crossed the lobby to get the lift; when the doors opened and he strode forward, he was distracted by looking at his watch, and he ended up colliding unexpectedly with the last person he thought he would have seen there.

"Oh, hi, sorry." It was Bridget.

"Hello," he said with a smile as they both stepped aside so as not to impede the flow of traffic into and out of the lift. "What brings you here?"

"I work here," she said. "Why are _you_ here?"

"I'm having lunch with a friend of mine. You probably know him. Daniel Cleaver?"

She nodded, then smiled, then surprised him with a laugh. "That explains everything, then. Oh, God. What an idiot I was."

"Pardon?" he asked, thoroughly perplexed.

"Well, at the party on New Years Day," she said. "I thought I recognised your wife, then realised she's been to see Daniel a few times and… oh God. Totally made an assumption there. I feel so silly."

"It's all right." He smiled. "Well, I should get upstairs. Nice to see you again."

They went their separate ways. While the encounter had apparently eased Bridget's conscience, it served to stir up thoughts of his own. It was true he had asked Jo to bring football match tickets round to Daniel at work—but that was only the once, just before he and Jo were married. When had she been round to see Daniel again, and why?

The lift dinged, alerting him to its arrival to Daniel's floor. As the doors opened, he chuckled to himself. What was he thinking? Jo could visit anyone she liked, even friends of his that she didn't know that well; she didn't need to tell Mark her every move. 

He approached Daniel's office, which had transparent windows for walls at the top of the editorial pit; Daniel was focused on his computer screen. Mark rapped at the door. "Hey," said Daniel, waving him in. "Give me a minute. Need to finish this message."

"Sure," he said, taking a seat beside the desk. "Small world, by the way."

"Oh?" asked Daniel, reaching for the mouse and clicking on something. 

"Yes," Mark said. "Turns out one of your employees is a fellow Grafton Underwoodian."

"Is that so?" He clicked something else, then pushed his chair back. "Who's that?"

"Bridget Jones."

"Oh, yes, _Bridge_ ," Daniel said. "She of short skirts and tight jumpers. Caught my eye at the Christmas party singing karaoke… quite badly. Very cute, very cute indeed." Daniel came up close to Mark, then added in a quiet voice, "Confidentially, Mark, wouldn't mind a bit getting into those pants."

Mark's disapproving expression caused Daniel to chuckle. "She's your subordinate," Mark explained.

Daniel shrugged; they left the office and wound through the pit towards the lift. Once they were at the lift, waiting for the doors to open, he said, "Like I've ever cared about that. I don't pressure anyone I sleep with into anything they don't want to do."

"Well, be careful, Cleaver," said Mark in a mock-threatening tone. "She's a friend of the family."

"That so?" he said. The doors opened and they stepped in. "Do you know her well?"

"Not really, though we apparently played together as children." He chuckled. "Funny, she met Jo on New Years Day."

"Oh?" Daniel asked.

"Yeah… guess she remembered seeing Jo 'round the office to see you, and thought… well, I won't repeat what she thought, because even according to her it's silly."

"Ah," said Daniel, then chuckled. "I take your meaning. Yes… _very_ silly, your wife and me."

The doors opened on the first floor; they stepped out into the lobby and went off to have lunch together, nothing unusual or extraordinary about it. In fact, he thought nothing more of their conversation, not throughout the rest of the day, and not again until it came to mind at dinner with Jo again that evening.

"Funny thing happened today," said Mark as he cut into his steak. 

"Oh?"

"Yes," he said. "Remember on New Years Day, you met Bridget?"

"Yes," she said. "Why?"

"She left so suddenly, if you recall."

"Yes," she said again.

"Well, small world—Bridget works at Pemberley Press," he said. "She'd seen you and Daniel together and—"

The fork slipped out of her hand, clinking on the plate. "Oh?" she said. Her voice wasn't at all amused, not like Daniel's had been. It was fraught with something akin to fear; at least it was for a moment before she added hotly, "Well, whatever she said is a lie. She just wants you for herself."

Mark did not know what to say. Her response was so defensive and disproportionate—not to mention patently ridiculous—that it took him aback. He settled on, "What?"

"Well, it's obvious she kept trying to draw you away to the kitchen," she added. "Don't believe a word of it."

Mark took a moment to collect his thoughts, such as they were. "She said once she realised Daniel and I were friends, it all made sense… she laughed about it, saying she'd made an absurd assumption," he said sharply. 

She had the good sense to flush deep red. "Mark… I'm sorry," she said. "That was an overreaction."

"Yes, it was," he said, cutting into his meat again. "Why would you say that?"

"You know me," she said. "I can be… so unreasonably jealous at times. I know I can. I'm sorry."

He felt the tension in his jaw lessen a bit; he hadn't even realised he'd tensed up so much. He looked down to his plate, cut into the meat again, and made an inane comment about the quality of the cut and how perfectly it had been cooked, all in order to direct conversation away from that unpleasant subject.

At the end of the meal, after he paid the bill and they'd gone to the car, she surprised him by taking his hand during the drive home, grazing her fingernails over the palm of his hand. Once they were back in the house, she surprised him once again by grabbing the front of his trousers, leading him off to the bedroom, and quickly bringing him to utter submission under her ministrations; it had been so long since they'd had anything resembling sex (primarily due to busy schedules, though he had begun to wonder whether her interest had waned) that he could not help how he responded. Afterwards her expression of smugness spoke volumes. He drifted off into a contented, exhausted sleep. 

When he awoke the next morning, she'd already gone out.

………

It wasn't long after this, in early February, that Daniel rang him up and asked if he and Jo were interested in attending a book launch that upcoming Tuesday. "Sure," said Jo when he covered the receiver with his hand to ask. "That could be very illuminating."

They arrived shortly before half six and quickly found and chatted with Daniel, who insisted they get drinks. "So far," said Daniel in a very confidential tone, "this has been a smashing success. I only hope this flaming poo of a book can actually sell."

Mark chuckled. "Sorry to hear it."

"You're sorry? I had oversee the editing. What a rambling, festering—oh. _Hello_." The change in tone, the low little whistle of appreciation, at the end of the sentence was so dramatic and sudden that both Mark and Jo turned to see what had caught Daniel's attention.

To his surprise, he saw a very familiar face… Bridget. She looked incredibly attractive in the sleek back satin dress she was wearing; her hair was pinned up in a manner that looked messy but that he knew had likely taken some time to achieve. She had not yet seen the three of them, and was looking around like a lost kitten in the middle of a busy roadway.

"Daniel," said Jo in an oddly level voice, "I thought you said Salman Rushdie's here. Will you please take me to introduce me?"

The two of them looked to Jo at the same time. Mark noticed Jo was looking at Daniel rather piercingly.

"Of course," said Daniel, who held out his elbow for her to take. With that they walked off. Mark was about to follow when Bridget noticed him and smiled in relief at seeing a familiar face before walking towards him at a healthy clip.

"Hi," she said; as she did he noticed her scanning the crowd as if she were looking for someone. "Oh, so nice to actually know someone here. I mean, someone _normal_. I just escaped being trapped for what felt like hours by the author of this godforsaken book when to be honest I'd much rather stay home watching the telly with a Dairy Milk."

This commentary made him smile, then chuckle a little. The candour with which she spoke was refreshing. "So what's the book about, anyway?"

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, I've read most of it," she said in as quiet a voice as she could manage and still be heard above the din of chatter, "and I still don't know. I think it's supposed to be deep and philosophical, but… it just ends up a winding, tangled and ultimately pointless mess."

At this Mark chuckled again. "So why is the tagline 'the greatest book of our time'?"

"Because some big names in literature who got advanced copies raved that very thing, and an endorsement like that can sell a lot of copies," she said. "Also because Daniel's suggestion wouldn't sell a lot of copies." She smirked.

"What was Daniel's suggestion?" Mark asked.

"'Possibly the worst book ever published,'" Bridget said, then laughed, seeming in good spirits until her drifting gaze settled. When it did, her mood instantly changed; she looked almost disappointed. Mark followed that gaze and saw she was observing Daniel chatting with Jo; even though he could not see her face, he could tell she was irritated, even agitated about something.

He looked back to Bridget, who still had not snapped out of her fugue. At that moment something clicked: Daniel had inferred that she hadn't seemed exactly receptive to his advances, so was it possible the disappointment was related to the presence of Mark's wife? Could it have been remotely true that Jo had been right—that Bridget was attracted to Mark? It seemed ludicrous on the face of it, but he supposed anything was possible.

Before he had a chance to say anything to her Daniel had spotted the pair of them and he and Jo were at their side again. Jo gave him a short but piercing look, clutching Mark's elbow protectively.

To Bridget, Jo said, "Hello again."

"Hello," said Bridget; she looked then to Daniel. "Mr Cleaver."

"Oh, come now, Jones," said Daniel. "I think you should feel free to call me Daniel. We're all friends here." He went round to stand nearer to her, slipping an arm around her shoulder for a little hug. Bridget's reaction was hard to decipher: confused, possibly, but to Mark's eye it certainly did not seem like the interest he had in her was reciprocated; instead of looking like she was enjoying the embrace, Bridget continued to look at Mark, then to his wife. "So you've met the formidable Mrs Darcy, I see?" asked Daniel, grinning.

"We met at the—on New Years Day, I mean." Bridget then said to Jo, "You look really great. So elegant."

He turned to look at Jo; he couldn't see her face clearly, but he suspected she had donned her imperious expression. "Thanks," she said dismissively.

"So how did it go?" Mark asked.

"What?" Jo seemed confused.

"Meeting Mr Rushdie."

"Oh, that," she said. "We couldn't pin him down. We'll try again in a bit."

Mark saw Daniel's hand slip to Bridget's waist. "So, care for a drink?" he said, close to her ear. 

"I—"

"Here you are, Bridget," said Jo, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing tray and thrusting it at Bridget. 

"Thank you," she said, accepted it with gratitude; Mark was surprised to see a small smile at the corner of her mouth. "So…" she began again, looking to Jo as she cleared her throat. "We didn't really get to talk last time, and I don't know that much about you. What is it you do?"

"I'm sorry… what I do?" Then, apparently realising what Bridget meant, Jo laughed lightly. "Oh, what I do _for a living_? I was a CPA. Mark's CPA."

"You _were_ a CPA?" Bridget asked, furrowing her brow.

"Well, I haven't had to work since we got married," she said smugly.

"Oh," said Bridget with a tone that at first Mark thought was envy, but with the glance she then gave to Mark, he realised it was more like commiseration.

"So what do you do?" Jo asked.

"She works with me," stepped in Daniel. "Best and brightest in publicity, Jones is. And, I might add, the sexiest."

Bridget turned pink. "I haven't been with the company that long," she said, "to warrant 'best and brightest,' I mean." She laughed almost nervously, then added, "Or the sexiest."

"Let me be the judge," said Daniel. "In fact, maybe I can refine my opinion over dinner after the book launch, you and me."

"Daniel," Jo said, nearly interrupting him, "let's go try to find Mr Rushdie again, shall we?"

As they strolled away, Bridget looked relieved to have escaped the need to give him an answer. "Bridget," he said, taking her out of her thoughts, "is he… well, like a Jared to you?"

She chuckled. "Not quite," she said. "I used to think I might like to go out with him, but… I don't know now."

"Is there someone else?" he asked gently.

"You… you might say that, yes," she said, meeting his gaze… and a direct one it was.

Now more than ever it seemed that his wife's suspicions might be correct, so it was best to stop in their tracks any budding feelings she might have had. "Bridget," he said firmly. "I'm flattered, but as you know, I'm married."

To his astonishment, she only regarded him with an odd expression. "Are you out of your mind?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You think I mean you?" she asked; she'd started to chuckle. Now instead of being flattered, his ego was a bit wounded. "Oh, Mark. I'm sorry to laugh. I just meant that…" She seemed to consider her words carefully. "I'm afraid there may be someone else for _Daniel_."

Mark knew that his friend was something of a cad, and nodded at the possibility; he was glad she'd realised Daniel's nature, because he'd prefer she not get hurt. She could best do that by steering clear of his wicked ways. "Funny, though," said Mark as she sipped the last of her drink. "He hasn't mentioned anyone new to me."

The strength of her blush was unprecedented as she coughed on her champagne. "Sorry, sorry," she sputtered, covering her mouth.

At that moment someone began to speak over the microphone, so all attention turned to the stage for Mr Fitzherbert. He offered a lengthy speech then toast for the success of the book, and they engaged in more social mingling.

It wasn't until much later that Mark realised Bridget and he never got to conclude their conversation. Upon further reflection, though, he realised it was not the subject of the conversation of which he felt deprived, so much as the pleasant and comfortable interaction with his childhood friend.

"She seems nice," Mark said idly on their drive home. 

"Who seems nice?"

"Bridget," he said. "No wonder Daniel's so attracted to her—"

"I don't know what _anyone_ sees in her," Jo interrupted, almost as if a minor explosion were going off in the passenger seat. "She's ordinary in every way and not even that particularly interesting; no sense of propriety, no sense of sophistication, no sense of _fashion_." She snorted a derisive laugh. "Throwing herself at Daniel without any sense of decency, and tricking him in to asking her for dinner…." She paused, then added, "I'm sure she would have gone after you, too, if she'd had half a chance."

He did not quite know what to say, so he chose to say nothing. He was used to her fits of jealousy, but to accuse Bridget of attempting to seduce Daniel when the complete opposite seemed to be the truth… and to take it a step further by accusing Bridget of attempting to seduce Mark… it was just very odd.

He also disagreed wholeheartedly with her assessment. He had come to realise that Bridget was anything but ordinary, that he liked her a great deal… and seemed to be the polar opposite to his own wife in almost every way. He pondered what to make of this, and concluded he was more perplexed than he had been before—and not sure he would ever understand women.

………

It soon became very obvious that whatever doubt or hesitation Bridget had harboured about having dinner with Daniel, she'd gotten over it, because it seemed that the two of them began dating regularly. Mark hoped that as different as she seemed to be from Daniel's usual flings, perhaps his friend would spare Bridget the same treatment.

Several of their dates had turned out to be all four of them together, which they'd done, surprisingly enough, at Jo's suggestion. "Perhaps I judged a little too harshly," she'd confessed. "I mean, you two seem to like her so much…" Mark had been quite shocked, but pleasantly so at the turnaround she'd displayed, and he'd turned out to enjoy those outings very much indeed. The more conversations he had with Bridget, the more he liked her.

Mid-February put the two men alone together at lunch, and it was there that Mark broached the subject of his future with Bridget.

"Christ, Mark," said Daniel. "It's hardly a long-term thing, now, is it?"

"I know, but I also know your habits," Mark said, pointing a banger-laden fork in Daniel's direction.

"So do I," he said. He took a sip of his bitter. "It's peculiar, though. She didn't fall into my arms with stars in her eyes. I've had to work at it every step of the way, and I'm not used to it… and the funny thing is, it's been worth it."

Mark grinned. "That is reassuring," he said.

"When a, dare I say it, _relationship_ starts out on such a wildly different trajectory… what can it mean?"

"Maybe that you actually care about her?"

"Hmm," he said, then grinned broadly. "Maybe I do." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I mean, I can't think the last time a girl watched football with me… or the last time I was willing to miss a match for a girl."

They parted with a promise to all have dinner together that Friday night; when Mark saw his wife later that evening, out for dinner after work at yet another restaurant, he mentioned Friday's plans to her.

"Oh, thanks for reminding me," Jo said.

"I was a bit worried at first, you know, about Daniel taking her out," Mark said. "I was afraid he might hurt her, because he's not exactly, er, the commitment type, and he has a roving eye. But this might be different for him."

Her eyes flashed up. "Different?" she asked.

Mark nodded. "He's admitted he might actually feel something for her."

She offered a very calm, "I see," but to Mark it appeared as if she were becoming increasingly furious. In fact, he fully expected for her to burst out with some kind of rant the moment they left the restaurant, but she in fact did not.

At least not right away.


	2. Chapter 2

Friday night's 'double date' started out as well as any had previously: good food, a lot of excellent wine, and fun conversation. Jo had, as always, been subdued and mostly silent, though was drinking a lot more than she usually did. 

Then Bridget put her arm playfully around Daniel's shoulders with a giggle. 

"Get your fucking hands off of him."

All three of them turned to look at Jo in alarm.

"What?" said Bridget, as if in disbelief of what she'd heard.

"I said, _get your fucking hands off of him_."

After simmering for a few days, Jo had apparently reached her boiling point about Bridget; as always the hatred was a mystery to Mark, especially considering she was bestowing affection on Daniel, and not her own husband. 

"Jocasta," Daniel said in a level tone, one that also strangely suggested an unspoken warning.

"Don't you _dare_ ," she said, turning to Daniel with a fiery expression. "Don't tell me to shut up, and don't say another word, you lying son-of-a-bitch. How dare you flaunt _this_ in front of me!" She pointed accusingly at Bridget. The entire restaurant had gone stone silent. Daniel's face paled, as did Bridget's; it was apparently only Mark who immediately failed to grasp what she was saying. The unspoken undercurrent soon became clear to even Mark, though: this had to do with his wife and his best friend… and something unthinkable between them.

Jo rose from the table, staring at Bridget. "Get away from him right now, you whore. He doesn't love you. He never will."

Bridget looked stunned; tears welled in her eyes, and she looked to Mark.

"I think," Mark said calmly, turning a penetrating gaze towards his wife, "that Bridget is not the whore here." Jo's mouth dropped open in shock before she regained her composure, or as much as she could in her drunken state. Bridget pushed back from the table as if she were going to leave, tears now streaking down her cheeks, but Mark put a gentle hand on her forearm. "No, don't leave," he said to her. "I'll bring you home."

She stared at Mark in wide-eyed disbelief as Daniel spoke; Daniel tried to keep his voice quiet, darting a nervous glance towards Mark. "Sit down. We've already discussed this, and you're making a fool—"

"I _am_ a fool," Jo interrupted. "You'll never change, Daniel. And you…" She looked at Mark with disdain. Maybe even pity. "You're a fool too for not seeing the obvious." With that Jo stormed off.

"Sorry," said Daniel to Mark.

He laughed mirthlessly under his breath. 'Sorry' was for bringing home the wrong brand of biscuits, not for something of this magnitude, the betrayal of a friendship. "She's right," said Mark, turning to him at last. "I am a fool. Now please leave. Whatever you have to say to Bridget doesn't need saying, and I really don't want to speak to or see you right now."

Daniel had the decency, at least, to not try to blubber excuses; silently he threw down enough money to cover the dinner before he left the restaurant. Mark was in something of a daze. Collecting up a still-stunned Bridget, leaving the restaurant, retreating to his car… it was done in a sort of autopilot.

"I don't suppose you want to go to your own house."

Still parked at the kerb near to the restaurant, Mark looked over and to his astonishment saw Bridget sitting there in the passenger seat.

"No," Mark said. "Not really." He made no motion to start the engine.

"Whatever I'm feeling," she said cautiously, "it must be a million times worse for you."

He wondered if that were true; yes, he had been doubly betrayed, but in the immediate aftermath, what came immediately bubbling to the surface was the novel sensation of…

Being free.

"Why don't you come over to my flat for coffee or something?" Bridget continued. "I mean, if you feel like you can drive. You have had a bit of a shock, after all."

Her words snapped him back to reality; Mark was thankful that his wine buzz had not been that strong to begin with. "Yes, of course," he said, turning the key.

He heard her start to laugh a little under her breath, and he wondered if she might not have started to go hysterical. "I'm fine," she said before he could ask. "I just sounded frighteningly like my mother, there."

This made him smile, something he realised he needed very much in that moment. "Tell me where it is you live."

She did, and they began the short drive there; it was spent mostly in silence.

Her flat was modest but was cosily decorated; no two pieces of furniture seemed to match, and every surface seemed to have a picture frame, an askew book, a small figurine from a holiday abroad… signs of life. He looked around, thought of his own house, and realised how designer names and showroom appearances weren't actually everything. He also realised how much he liked her flat after just a few minutes inside. Perhaps unreasonably so.

"Sorry it's a bit of a mess," she said, throwing her handbag down onto a small table. As she did, she burst out into tears. "Sorry," she said immediately, bringing them under control as best and as quickly as she could, wiping her face dry. "It keeps hitting me in waves that I've been duped. Then seeing his fucking vest there—" She picked up a bundle of white from the arm of her sofa and threw it angrily across the room towards the vicinity of a waste bin. "Sorry, sorry." She wiped away more tears. "I'm just so _angry_."

"I understand," he said quietly.

"God, sorry. What a jerk I am," she said, her eyes welling up again. "I'm sure you do."

"Please, Bridget," he said. "Stop apologising. We're in the same boat, you and I. Let's have a little coffee, or tea, or, hell, Horlicks for all I care… and commiserate, if nothing else."

Concern still shadowed her features. "I don't know how you can compare your being married to what—"

She stopped speaking when Mark held up his hand. "Please. Put the kettle on, or the cafetière, or whatever you want to have."

Bridget grinned lopsidedly. "If I didn't want the hangover from hell I'd say let's have Bailey's straight out of the bottle," she said, "but it's probably best that we don't get completely shit-faced." She brought her hand to her mouth. "Sorry. I think I'm a bit pissed yet."

This made him chuckle, which was actually a respite from the internal dialogue which was turning circles in his mind, trying to figure out when his wife had first betrayed him and how he'd missed the signs.

She wandered over to the kitchen a bit unsteadily; he decided he ought to help, or at least make sure she didn't fall over. "Oh God," she said in a desperate voice, grabbing the edge of the table for support. "I'll have to work with him on Monday. Why on earth did I ever agree to go out with him, with someone I work with… with my _boss_? Oh _God_."

He patted her shoulder reassuringly. "You didn't do anything wrong," he said gently. "He should be the one cringing to see you." She turned her reddened gaze towards him. "And if he bothers you, just call me. I'll come and knock his block off."

It was her turn to laugh. "Thanks." She smiled. "I've made an executive decision. Hot drinking chocolate. With milk. Might even have whole milk to use." She crouched to get the saucepan and swooned to the side and nearly landed on her bottom on the floor. 

"Why don't you let me do that?" he asked.

"I'm really not that far gone," she said, before her face crumpled up with sadness again. "Sor—I'll just sit down. If you don't mind doing it."

With little fuss Mark got a pan of milk simmering for their drinking chocolate, located a couple of mugs and the chocolate itself.

"You know, I think the thing I hate the most about this is… that I was _right_ ," Bridget said. "I mean, those initial assumptions when I recognised her on New Years Day. Sometimes the level of denial we can talk ourselves into…"

He nodded. "I never suspected anything," he said. "Either she was very discreet or I didn't want to acknowledge that… well. We were not often very intimate for a couple that had only been married a little over a year. I should have guessed she'd turned elsewhere for…." He trailed off, then said, "Satisfaction."

She said nothing in response, and he turned to see her looking at him with an expression of wide-eyed surprise. 

"What?" he asked.

"I'm astonished to hear you talk so frankly," she said; he had been exceedingly candid, possibly more so than was warranted. Then she smiled; perhaps his regret showed on his face. "I don't mind, though. Seeing as we _are_ in the same boat, who else could better understand?"

She made a very salient point, Mark realised; it didn't hurt that she was also very, very easy to talk to. He turned back to the saucepan to see the milk had a faint steam coming from it; warm enough for chocolate. He tipped the pan up to pour the milk into the mugs, gave each of them a stir, then brought them to her table just as she got to her feet.

"No," she said. "Let's sit in there." She tipped her head, indicating the sitting room they'd breezed by on the way in. She went to what must have been her usual spot, falling into the sofa cushions, then sighing heavily. "Take off your shoes, have a seat," she said before taking a long draw from her mug. Mark claimed a chair adjacent to the sofa, setting the mug down as he got comfortable, then kicked off his shoes.

After many moments of comfortable silence, Bridget spoke, wiping discreetly under her eyes again. "You know, it's sort of ridiculous that I'm crying over that fucking fuckwit when I was so hesitant to date him in the first place—it's like I _knew_ deep down he was a poo of a man," she said. "I mean, honestly, I'm glad to have the truth now, and… sort of glad to be rid of him before I'd got even more attached."

Mark chuckled, recalling his thought from earlier, of being free. "I know what you mean." He sat back, stretched his legs out in front of him and rested one foot over the other, then took a sip of his own chocolate. It was perfect. "You probably think I should be more devastated," he said.

"I can't judge," she said.

"Now that the initial shock's worn off…" He let out a long breath, closed his eyes momentarily before looking to her again. "Well, at the risk of repeating myself, the signs were there. Just didn't know what they meant."

"You can repeat if you need to," she said.

"Or too naïve to believe it could happen." He took another drink of chocolate. "This is really good."

"Oh, do you like it? My friend Jude brought it back from a business trip to Brussels."

"I noticed the French on the label."

"Oh?" she asked. "Do you speak French?"

" _Un peu_ ," he said, pinching the air to suggest a small amount. "Enough to get by."

She made a dismissive sound. "Oh, please." She swung her legs up to stretch them out along the sofa. "You're probably fluent or something. Me? I was appalling. I think I could probably tell you which word means 'chocolate' on that package in there." She gestured towards the kitchen.

"Come on, that's an easy one: _chocolat_ ," he said with a laugh. "I bet you'd remember more than you think you do."

"And I'd bet I don't," she said, lifting a brow in his direction.

Taking this as the challenge it was, Mark went back to the kitchen to get the container of drinking chocolate and read through the text; unfortunately she was as much of a disaster with French as she claimed, but her guesses at least had them laughing until their faces were red.

"I was right," she said. "You practically _are_ fluent."

"No. I just have the pronunciation part down." 

"But you knew what they all meant." 

"Well…" he admitted. "I guessed. I know a fair bit of Latin."

"Latin?!" she exclaimed.

"The law."

She laughed, setting her now-empty mug down. "Durrr."

"And since French is a Romance language…" He trailed off. Different context; not the word he wanted to bring up at that moment.

"Well, it sounds totally fluent," she said, "and you sound really nice speaking all that gibberish. Oh God." She covered her face with her hands in her embarrassment. "Sorry. I get a little drink in me and I have no rein on my tongue."

He grinned. "You don't seem to have much rein on it under normal circumstances," he said. He finished his own drink and set down the mug. "Well, I suppose I must face up to reality sooner or later, and go home."

Her slight smile faded. "You'll be okay?"

"Yes," he said, though he hardly felt as confident as he sounded. "I wasn't the one who did anything wrong."

She nodded. "That's right." She looked weepy for a moment, but it passed very quickly. "And I'll be okay, too."

He got to his feet and as he did, noticed a bright red light flashing in the periphery of his vision. He turned to look at it directly. "Oh. Your answerphone is blinking."

She spun. "So it is. Huh." Without a pause she reached to push the button, as if total habit, as if she'd forgotten he was even there.

The voice that boomed out was familiar to both of them.

"Bridge, Bridge, look, I'm sorry." Daniel. "I don't know what happened with Jo tonight—but I swear, I _swear_ it's over. It was stupid to have ever started, I know I've fucked up beyond words…." Long exhale. "Call me. Please—"

She hit the button to stop it then pressed another. An electronic-sounding voice announced, "Message erased." Though he knew the truth of it, hearing the words really solidified the situation. Mark felt like ice had just settled in the pit of his stomach; he might have begun to realise the marriage was dying anyway, but it was another thing altogether that she had actively sought to annihilate it.

"Sorry. Should have waited to play it."

"It's okay," he said. 

"Oh, bugger, maybe I should have kept it, you know… evidence."

He shook his head. "Don't think that's necessary," he said.

A sound coming from the flat door got their attention simultaneously. A key in the lock. When the door swung open and Daniel came into the flat, Mark felt a surge of murderous rage unlike any he'd ever felt. That he should come, let himself in without notice…

"Get out," Mark said, teeth clenched.

Daniel looked stunned, but, sensing his time was limited, he turned to appeal to Bridget. "Did you get my message? I'm sorry—"

"Give me the key."

"What?"

She held out her hand, which was remarkably steady. "You just let yourself it. Give me that fucking key back. Now."

"But Bridge—"

"I think you're lying. About it being over. And even if you're not lying—you had no qualms about sleeping with your friend's wife. You think I can possibly trust you?" She snapped her fingers. "Key."

Daniel dug his hand into his jacket pocket. "Your insane wife followed me home," Daniel muttered, shooting Mark a glance as he placed the key in her hand. "I fucked up, I know it, but she's delusional if she thinks I want to marry her."

Mark blinked in his astonishment. Daniel had the sense to turn away to leave before Mark physically pushed him out.

"Daniel," Mark said. He turned once more. "You will not bother Bridget at work, you will not so much as look at her without a business case, or I will—well. You know what I do for a living."

Daniel stood stock still for a moment before nodding slightly, turning, and leaving, pulling the door hard behind him.

"Well," she said, turning and pitching the key into the farthest depths of the flat. "Thank you for that." Then she collapsed onto the sofa, sighing rather heavily. She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and leaned against the arm of the sofa, her chin on her knees, her expression far away. "Mark," she said. "Can you stay just a bit longer?"

"Of course." Mark figured perhaps she wanted the company after what had just happened, so he took a seat on the chair again. 

She looked to him. "If your wife really is acting mad," she said, "I'm sort of worried about you going home now." 

_She_ was worried about _him_? He was touched at the concern, that she cared. "I'm a bit more worried for you than I am for myself, but thank you," he said. "Shall I make some more chocolate?"

She smiled a little. "Sure." She unfolded herself from the position she'd taken and they went into the kitchen.

"You don't have to come. I can manage," he said, "and you're tipsy." 

She blew air through her lips in a dismissive manner. "I'm not. I'm totally over that." She held out her arms and mimicked walking a road line. "See? Perfectly sober."

While Mark warmed up a second pan of milk, Bridget poked around in the pantry until she found a pack of Jaffa cakes. She held them up, looking utterly triumphant.

He mused that she had a really terrific smile.

They brought the chocolate and the Jaffa cakes back to the sitting room; he took the other end of the sofa to better be able to share them. Slowly the made their way through the entire packet as they drank the chocolate; as they did they discussed their shared childhood, paddling pools, trips to the zoo and other things Bridget had a harder time recollecting than Mark did.

"Well, you are an older man," she said with a wink.

"And you were quite a challenge to mind as a child, so… rather difficult to forget."

"So my mum says," she said with a smile, then rested her head down on a folded elbow on the arm of the sofa. "Mmm. Can't believe we ate the whole packet."

He didn't think it was advisable to point out she'd taken the lion's share of them. "Hmm," he said noncommittally, then he settled back into the sofa, rested his head back and closed his eyes for a moment.

At least, he intended for it to be only a moment, but when the morning light shining through his lids woke him he realised he'd been a lot more tired than he'd thought. _Warm milk and biscuits probably didn't hurt_ , he thought.

His neck had a bit of a crick in it from the awkward position he'd taken. He realised he'd shifted slightly to rest on a huge pillow, one that rested upon her legs. She was still fast asleep and clutching a pillow of her own. He tried to sit up without waking her and was successful, but when the pain throbbed in his head upon reaching verticality, an involuntary sound of pain issued from his lips.

She stirred at the sound, looked around in confusion, then glanced to him. "Oh, hell. Sorry. Ow." She brought her hand to her own head and pushed herself up. She cringed again. 

He didn't think he'd had that much to drink, but evidently he had; her head must have felt like a jackhammer was sounding off. "I hadn't meant to fall asleep."

"Obviously I didn't either," she said. "Ugh. Not sure I can make coffee without throwing up." He chuckled. She sank back to the pillow. "Sorry. I do nothing but say the worst possible things around you."

"Oh, believe me, it's a refreshing change," he said, standing. "I don't mind making the coffee if you can tell me where everything is."

Within a few minutes the flat was filled with the enticing aroma of fresh brewed coffee. She asked him to drop in a few sugars and some milk. One sip spoke of approval; she added, "I think you make it better than I do."

"Definitely need to go home after this," Mark said, trying to keep his tone light. "My clothes surely need cleaning."

She smiled ever-so-slightly. "I was going to say I hope she doesn't give you a hard time," Bridget said, her hand still over her eyes, "but she's hardly in a position to do that."

"It doesn't mean she won't try."

The coffee did help immensely, and when he finished he rose to take the empty mugs over to the kitchen sink. He turned on the tap to rinse it out.

"Don't you dare do any washing up," she called from the sofa.

"I won't," he said. "I'm sure there are messages awaiting me on my mobile." Which he realised he'd left in the car. "Better be off. Take care and…" Would he see her around? If she wasn't seeing Daniel anymore when would he have opportunity to see her? "…well, maybe we can have lunch sometime."

She took her hand away from her eyes, and managed a wan smile. "I'd like that. Thanks." She pushed herself up and groaned.

"No, don't get up," he said, holding his hand out in the universal 'stop' gesture. "I'll show myself out."

Upon taking the seat behind the wheel, he found his mobile was indeed flashing with a message from Jo from about one in the morning, and another from three-thirty. He took in a deep breath, then listened to them. The message was not at all what he expected.

"Mark, it's Jocasta." She paused. "I need to talk to you. Please call back."

Then: "Mark, Jo again. If you're trying to prove a point, it's proven. I don't know what got into me tonight. Please call. Come home."

He considered her use of the name she claimed to hate, and wondered what exactly he should expect when he got home. Strangely enough, he wasn't anxious, though he was fully prepared for anything she was ready to throw at him, figuratively or literally.

He had barely turned the key in the lock and swung open the door when he heard her footfalls from the top floor, then as she came down the stairs. She looked utterly wrecked, the most unpolished and dishevelled he had ever seen her. It was no doubt for his benefit, or for her own in order to garner sympathy.

"Mark."

"Hello, _Jo_ ," he said in a level voice.

"I was so worried," she said.

"Were you worried," he asked placidly, "before or after you went to Daniel to beg him to take you back? I hope you were up there packing."

"Mark…" she said, but she had begun to lose the little lost soul persona she'd carefully constructed. Had begun to look angry. "I made a terrible mistake."

"Oh, I'll say you did," he said. "The old cliché certainly applies. Play with fire; get burnt."

"Isn't our marriage worth a second chance?"

"To be honest, I don't think it is," he said, still suffused with that overall sense of calm, "and here's why I think that. You were biding your time to see whether Daniel would take my place as meal ticket, but I think he's smarter than that. Smarter than I was, anyway."

She said absolutely nothing. Only her face started to redden with her mounting fury.

Everything started to fall into place as he spoke. "I'd bet the house he said he didn't love you, but you didn't believe him," he continued. "And _then_ he started to take Bridget out. It all makes sense. You couldn't handle it. That's what happened last night. You completely lost all control."

"Stop it," she barked. "Just fucking stop it!"

There was no denial. Mark knew he'd gotten it as close to right as he could have. "You can get what you need for the next few days," he said. "Then I'll expect you to go."

She stared at him. "So where were _you_ last night?"

"I don't see how that matters at all."

Jo offered a malevolent smile. "Bridget," she said. "You dropped her home, and then what? Spent the night _consoling_ each other?"

"Yes, I did take Bridget home," he said. "She asked me up for a little bit so that I could recover from the shock. We had some hot drinking chocolate and I fell asleep on her sofa."

She burst out laughing. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care if you believe it or not," he said. "It's the truth, and frankly, you have no room to stand regarding lectures on morality." He pointed up the stairs. "Now go on, pack some things. Go stay with a friend. Brush up on your accounting skills."

"So you're throwing me out?"

"I am. Yes."

She stood stock still. "I won't make a divorce easy for you."

"I have ample evidence of infidelity," he said. "I imagine Daniel feels fairly remorseful, and I'd wager he'll offer his full cooperation. But you know, even if he doesn't, I'd still go through with divorce proceedings. I realise now our getting married was a big mistake."

"So Daniel gets a pass and I don't?"

"He's not getting a pass," Mark said. "Now stop stalling and get the fuck out of my house."

The vulgarity surprised him as much as it did her. "Fine," she said.

"And take this with you," he said, pulling his gold band from his finger then holding it out for her to take. "I certainly don't need it anymore, and you may need a little pocket change. Can't say I never gave you anything, though it's probably not as much as you'd hoped for."

She went even more florid then stalked up the stairs in a huff. She had taken the ring from him, though.

He could hear, from the top floor, the sound of her stomping around as she packed the things she deemed necessary. He considered joining her upstairs to ensure she didn't pinch anything that wasn't rightly hers, but in all honestly, he couldn't stand the thought of being in the same room with her right now; he was grateful enough just then that he'd had the foresight to keep the house in his name alone. 

Twenty minutes later, after he'd fetched himself a shot of scotch, she stormed back down the stairs. He held out his hand for the key as she left then changed the security code on the house alarm afterwards.

Mark felt ever more alive.

………

The next few days were a little difficult, readjusting to life on his own again. They may not have had a full, vibrant life together, but at least his nights hadn't been spent alone. He reminded himself that being alone was better than being with someone whose only purpose was to take advantage of him. He was grateful that at least Jo had not tried to continue to contact him to plead her case.

The week passed, then another; before Mark knew it divorce paperwork was begun, Jo was totally moved out (and always under supervision when doing so), and his feeling of liberty grew stronger. A couple of weeks after that awful end of things, he rang Bridget up to see how she was doing.

"Oh, pretty okay," she said. "Hanging in there. What about you? You must be going through quite an upheaval."

"As can be expected. Actually…" He paused. "I hadn't quite realised how much stress I'd been under all the time."

"What do you mean?"

"Wondering what little thing would set her off, with regards to her jealous nature. Which I see now is some kind of… transference, I guess." It felt so good to say the words out loud. "I guess I felt I was walking on eggshells around her. All the time."

There was a short stretch of silence before she spoke. "That's terrible," she said. "That's no way to live, especially with someone who's supposed to be your soul-mate. Ugh."

He laughed lightly. 

"Why is that funny?" she asked.

"There was nothing 'soul-mate' about it, Bridget."

"That's sad," she said, then immediately said, "Sorry. That was a bit harsh of me to say."

"Don't apologise. It's true," he said. "It was a bit sad."

"I have an idea," she said. "Lunch. Let's have lunch. It's so hard to have a conversation like this without seeing expressions and body language. Are you free?"

He glanced to his diary. "Yes, absolutely. Did you have something in mind?"

"Not really, though, oh… there is a pub not far from here."

"I think I know the one you mean," Mark said. "It's one that… well, Daniel and I went to many times."

They arranged to meet there at half noon. Mark arrived first, which didn't surprise him, so he took the liberty of ordering himself a pint of bitter and a glass of wine for Bridget. "But wait for her to arrive," he told the barman. "She'll want it cold."

Bridget arrived not long after and smiled broadly when the barman set her drink down within seconds of her sitting down. He thought she looked exceptionally nice, particularly when compared to the last time he'd seen her; she wore a jumper, short skirt and tights with the knee-high boots like she had on New Years Day. She had her hair up and away from her face except for the shorter fringe, and it was more than just the presence of a glass of wine that caused her to look so radiant. He suspected that she'd mostly gotten over any heartbreak she'd suffered, and for that he was glad. 

"It's good to see you," he said, and he meant it.

"Good to see you too," she said.

After ordering from the menu, he suggested to take their drinks to a table from the bar. As they sat, he said, "I would ask you how work has been but I can guess it's been all right."

"Yeah, it could have been a lot more awkward, though…" She leaned in. "…I am looking for another job. I don't feel like I have a lot of—What do they call it?—'upward mobility' there."

"You haven't been there that long, though," he said. He drew his brows together. Was she being pressured to leave? "Has Daniel been bothering you?"

"No, he hasn't. Well… unless an apology at every opportunity can be considered 'bothering.'" She nervously bit her lower lip between her teeth. "It was actually from him that I heard about you starting on your divorce, though I can't say I'm surprised. Are you really holding up okay?"

"I am," he said. "Or do I look shattered?"

"Actually, no," she said. "You look… very well indeed. The last time I saw you… you looked really tired. I mean… even before things blew up."

He wasn't terribly surprised to hear it. "The aforementioned stress."

Their food arrived and immediately they began to eat. As they did, as they talked some more about the details of life, Mark realised how very alone he had been; he'd lost not only the companionship of his wife, but of a good friend, probably his best friend, the man who'd been his best man. When Bridget asked, "Penny for your thoughts?", he felt obliged to tell her.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Is there not someone at your work you can do things with?"

"Not really," he said. "Unfortunately, I burnt a lot of bridges when I married Jo. She was insistent on my time and attention. I mean, she was very eager to attend social events—to see my social circle, and, more importantly, be seen by them—but individual friendships paid the price, and had to be sacrificed." Mark sighed heavily. "I should have seen the signs."

"I should think heartfelt apologies would go a long way," she said. "It's worth a try, especially if they know you're getting divorced."

"I haven't talked much about it at work," he said, "aside from consulting with a divorce specialist in chambers."

"I still think you need to make the effort," she said. 

It sounded so easy when she put it like that but—"It's very hard for me to… open up like that. Admit a failure."

"You don't seem to have a problem doing that with me," she said with a grin.

"You understand the situation," he said, "and you don't judge me."

He thought he saw a flicker of another, softer smile pass over her lips. "You think they would judge you?"

"I'm sure of it."

She appeared to consider her next words very carefully. "Think of it in terms of risk versus benefit. A moment of discomfort may result in healing a friendship."

He began to nod. "I could use a good Saturday morning game of squash again, and Jeremy and I used to have terrific matches together."

To his surprise she patted the back of his hand. "That's the spirit," she said with a bright smile. He returned the smile then took a sip of the bitter, contemplating her words, contemplating the heat of her hand as she'd touched him, as if a spark had jolted him back to the world of the living.

"I'll do it," he said at last as he met her gaze and smiled in return.

"Good," she said. 

They finished their lunch and said their goodbyes. Something seemed different about her, though; while she still seemed as happy and as ebullient as when she'd arrived, there was a small but discernable difference upon their parting.

It was not until he was paying for the taxi on the way back to chambers that it struck him: she had been tenderly cradling the fingertips on her right hand, the fingertips with which she'd touched him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part includes something that was inspired by the lovely E. I can't say what it is (will spoil story) but it features prominently in this part.

Apologies were accepted, conversation flowed, and Mark was pleased to welcome his estranged friends from chambers back into his life. He and Jeremy scheduled a match for that Saturday morning.

"I'm warning you: I'm out of practice," Mark said.

"Mark, I've got two kids now. Hasn't been much time for squash."

Saturday's squash match wasn't rigorous so much as fun. They both panted and wheezed a bit more than they used to, but they laughed all the while and considered the new recurring sport meeting to be just what they both needed.

"Oh, wanted to ask… since you were never much interested, or rather, Jo was never much interested when you were together, do you want to come to dinner tomorrow night? We've got a semi-regular thing going, all very casual, and if you're looking to expand your social network, I couldn't think of a better way."

He thought about it for a moment then agreed. "What should I bring?"

"Your scintillating personality," Jeremy said, then winked. "Maybe a bottle of good red too."

Despite the fact Jeremy had deemed it a casual affair, Mark didn't feel right showing up to a dinner engagement not wearing a suit and tie, so he donned the most casual of his suits (dark blue; thin white stripes) and a sedate burgundy tie before grabbing a bottle of red wine from his cellar and heading out for his car.

He had been to Jeremy's once or twice before, but always for business purposes and never for more than a few minutes (dropping off or picking up paperwork while on his way to somewhere else). He had never been beyond the foyer, had never even met Jeremy's wife or children, whose existence he only knew of because of the pictures that graced his colleague's desk.

He raised his hand to press the bell of Jeremy's front door when it swung unexpectedly open.

"Oh!"

He squinted to make out the mostly backlit figure, not quite believing his eyes, until she spoke again:

"Mark, is that really you?"

"Bridget?" he asked as she stepped aside to allow him entrance. As he passed her by, he looked down at her, still not quite sure he wasn't imagining things. "What a small world. What are you doing here?"

"Confidentially," she said in a low tone, "I always get roped into these dinners as the token single gal, but I never have the heart to say no to Magda. What brings you here?"

_Magda?_ he wondered, then remembered that was Jeremy's wife's name. "You're a friend of Magda's?" he asked.

"I asked you first," she said with a grin. "Just got here myself, let myself in…" she rattled her keys. "…thought I'd dropped my glove on the walk… was just going out for it when there you were."

"And your glove?" he asked, slipping out of his overcoat; though it was early March, the weather felt more like January. "I don't recall passing one."

"Oh. Wait." She dug her hand into her coat pockets. "Ahh, mystery solved. They were both in the same pocket." As she doffed her own coat, she raised a brow, then snapped her fingers as a connection was made. "Let me guess. You work with Jeremy. That's got to be it."

"Yes." He followed her further into the house. "What did you mean by 'token single'…"

He trailed off as it became immediately clear: every other person there was paired off in a really obvious way.

"Mark!" Jeremy's voice boomed just as Mark was relieved of the wine bottle. "So glad you could make it!" Jeremy then looked to Bridget, then brought his brows together. "You know each other?"

"We were childhood friends," said Bridget quickly; he noticed her gaze was fixed on the far end of the room. On another lone man. Mark understood, or at least he thought he did: the couples liked to play matchmaker.

"What a small world!" said Jeremy.

"Exactly what I said," Mark commented.

"Care for some wine?" Jeremy asked.

"Bee! You're here!"

Mark recognised the ginger-haired woman immediately from her photo as she came near. Mark answered Jeremy: "I would love some."

"I'll have some too," piped up Bridget as she gave her friend a quick hug. "Though not red if you've got white."

After a brief round of chit-chat with Magda about the children (who were staying with Jeremy's mother for the night), Jeremy was back in no time at all with one glass of each. "Just about dinnertime," said Magda. "Just going to see to the table. Jeremy, come and help, won't you?"

Once they were out of earshot, she said, "I'm really glad you're here."

He nodded towards the lone man. "I take it you know that chap."

She flushed bright pink. "Only from a dinner a few months ago. Jeremy's crashing bore of a brother. Ugh. I hope Magda had the sense to not put me next to him again."

To Bridget's great relief, Magda had not put Bridget next to Jeremy's brother Jason, but had set her near Magda, clear on the other side of the long table. To his surprise, Jason said to him, "I could swap with her if you want."

Since she was the only person aside from Jeremy that he knew and he tended to be a bit more sociable with friendly faces nearby, he eagerly agreed.

Jeremy had been right; dinner with a sociable, talkative group of adults of varying interests was exactly what he needed. It was so refreshing to not have to keep opinions in check, as was often the case in attending parties or dinners with Jo; she was always focused on appearances and first impressions and did not want him to rock the boat in any way. It was especially refreshing to speak at length and so freely with Bridget. It was during a playful discussion of workplace mistakes, though, that made him realise just how unlike Jo she really was.

"I helped put together this very carefully constructed teaser campaign for a horror novel," she said, swirling the wine around the bottom of her glass. Everyone at the table directed their attention towards her, raptly listening. "It was quite brill if I do say so myself… mounting suspense, blood-dripping letters, that sort of thing. Was asked to do the presentation for 'Michael's book' to the author, really thought I'd done well, but the further I progressed through the presentation the more the poor author looked shocked beyond words, pale and visibly trembling."

"What happened?" asked Jeremy.

"Turns out there were two authors called Michael. One had done a horror novel. The other had done a sweet children's book about a teddy bear. Guess which one I had just presented a gore-fest to?"

"No!" said Magda with a gasp from the far end of the table.

"Yes," Bridget said with a nod. "I apologised a million times and then went to get the correct presentation. By the end of it we were all laughing about it—thank God." There were gales of laughter around the table as she took in the end of her wine. "Afraid the poor man needs therapy now, though."

"I'm sure he's telling a similar story to an equally spellbound audience on a regular basis," said Mark with a smile, sipping his wine, while their fellow dinner guests began speaking amongst themselves again.

"Hardly spellbound," she said with a little smile.

"Don't be so modest," he said. "It wasn't the worst workplace mistake story I've heard tonight, though it was the most entertainingly told."

She leaned closer in to him to speak in a quieter voice. "Well, we both know I've made a much worse workplace mistake than that," she said with a small quirk of the corner of her mouth, "though _that_ story is hardly fit for public consumption."

He found himself chuckling despite everything that had happened. "Care for more wine?"

"Oh, yes, please," she said. "White."

"Of course."

He leaned for the white and held the bottle up to top up her glass. Before he did, however, he asked, "Didn't drive, did you?"

She shook her head. "Minicab."

"Ah." He poured, then added, "Why don't I drop you home?"

"If it's no trouble," she said, taking a long sip. "God, Magda always gets the best wine." She flashed her gaze to him. "Sorry. I'm used to incredible swill. And really, I don't drink that much."

"It's okay," he said. "It's a dinner party."

After dinner concluded the guests abandoned the table for socialisation in the sitting room; the chilly weather precluded heading out towards the back patio. As she cleared away the plates and put on some coffee, Magda asked if Bridget minded bringing out the cakes and biscuits. Mark offered to help and with the two of them working together they had the dessert spread laid out in no time at all.

"I'm not sure I have room for any of this yet," Bridget said as she picked up a small chocolate biscuit. "Although…" She took a nibble, sprinkling crumbs down the front of her jumper then involuntarily brushing them off with her hand. "That is pretty good."

Mark took one too. "Coffee?"

"I'd love some. Thanks."

It was a few minutes shy of eleven when someone mentioned a babysitter; with that the group decided en masse it was time to call it a night. Bridget slipped into the loo while Mark fetched his overcoat as well as the one he recognised as her own.

"Glad to see her happy after that fiasco with her boss." Magda, with whom he had spent almost no time on his own that evening, except to exchange a brief refrain on how small the world was. "Oh, God, that would have been _your_ …"

"Yes," he supplied before she could finish. _Wife._

"Well, it's a lovely silver lining, that it's brought you and Bee together," she said.

"Brought us…" he began, but she kept talking.

"I can totally understand why she hasn't said anything to me—obviously, discretion is warranted! Well. It was so good to meet you at last, and hope to see more of you. Bye!"

With that she flitted off to say goodbye to the approaching Bridget, to give her a quick hug before glancing to Mark.

_Together?_

"Okay, I'm ready if you are," Bridget said brightly. He turned to look at her, but he saw no sign of stunned surprise, no indication that Magda had actually made a similar comment to her.

"I am," he said. "Let's go."

The drive was not a long one, but apparently was too quiet for Bridget's liking. She asked him if anything was wrong.

"Oh, I'm fine," he said. "Just contemplating my work day tomorrow. Probably stayed longer than I ought have."

"I'm really not sure why she does these on a Sunday, to be honest," she said. "Maybe it's easier for parents to find a sitter."

"Possibly."

Another moment of quiet, then, "You know, I think Jason left me alone tonight because he thought I was there with you."

"Oh, really?" he said, as casually as he could.

"I'm grateful, to be honest," she said. "When you think about it… it did look like we arrived together, then we sat next to each other, and we left together."

And Jason had offered to swap places so that they could sit together. She was right. He made no comment about Magda's observation. If there was a general perception that they were a couple, he did not want to further perpetuate the idea with her.

When he reached her building, she turned to him and said, "Maybe we can have lunch again this week."

"I'd like that," he said; he really did enjoy talking to her. "But I'm not sure when I'm free." He fished into his jacket pocket and retrieved one of his cards. "Here, since I spend a lot of time on the phone in conference calls, feel free to email me when you can, and I can let you know when I'm available."

She accepted the card. "I'll do that." She smiled. "It's nice to have something to look forward to in the doldrums of the work week."

He grinned. "All right. I look forward to hearing from you."

………

It was mid-morning the next day when Mark thought to check his email, and was very surprised what he found: a message from "BJ", with a startlingly frank subject line and nothing in the body of the message:

_Subject: Skip the dating and jump into the 'having sex' part_

He read it several times to let it sink in. Had she been too shy to say something the night before? Seeing the words so boldly in front of him forced him to abruptly confront his own feelings: that he was in fact very attracted to her, not only to her open, friendly personality, but to the luscious curves she seemed to love to accentuate. He pictured her from the night before, wearing the snug jumper, the elegant trousers that hugged her form… and quite soon after wished very much that he was not sitting in his office.

Without recalling doing so he had his telephone receiver in his hand and was requesting to be connected to Pemberley Press; he then requested a transfer directly to Bridget's line.

"Publicity," came the voice through the earpiece. Bridget.

"Hi, it's Mark," he said.

"Got my email, obviously," she said, rather casually.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Dinner tonight instead of lunch?"

She was quiet for a moment, then said, "Yes. That sounds wonderful."

"Shall I pick you up from work?"

"Sure, but I wouldn't mind stopping at my flat before dinner to freshen up."

"Of course."

"Well, then," she said. "It's—I'll see you then."

"Yes," he said. "Until then."

As he replaced the receiver down again, Mark considered what she might have started to say in closing; combined with email's subject line, he thought she might have been about to say—

"It's a date," he murmured to no one. And in a sense, she was right; though they were at present just friends, they had a definite chemistry. He knew, though, that part of what he was feeling was more than likely wanting to fill a void of loneliness, wanting some warmth after an extended period of emotional cold, so he would have to tread quite carefully.

………

Mark practically counted the minutes until he left the office, and the drive to her office building seemed interminable. She was waiting on the kerbside outside of the Pemberley Press building; he pulled to the side then rose from the driver's seat, observing her as she stood there, scanning the traffic for him. She looked somehow adorable and sexy at the same time, wearing a miniskirt and a short coat that, even closed, did nothing to protect her legs against the chill of the early evening. He called her name then waved. She smiled then skipped (not his imagination, he thought) towards where he was parked.

"Hope you haven't been waiting long," he said, circling the front of the car to open the door.

"Nope, just came down," she said brightly, then, regarding the door he'd opened, she added, "Thank you." She descended into the seat.

Within a moment they were dashing towards Bridget's building as best as a car can dash through London city streets. Neither said much of anything; she only spoke as they were pulling up to her building. "Come on up," she said. "I promise it won't take me long."

He brought up his attaché mostly out of concern that his laptop might prove a temptation for a passing thief. He set down his case, removed his overcoat, laid it down over the banister at her direction, then saw her struggling to slip out of her own.

"Allow me," he said, then lifted the coat up and off of her shoulders. He then removed it from her, draping her coat next to his.

She turned and directed her gaze at him. "So," she said. "Shall I…" She tilted her head towards the back of the flat. He was overwhelmed and in that moment, quicker than rational thought, he leaned forward, grasped the backs of her upper arms, and lowered his head to kiss her.

There was a beat or two where he swore she reciprocated, but given what happened next—pushing him back, a strong slap to his face—he thought he must have imagined it.

"What the hell?!" she exclaimed, assuming a familiar defensive posture, her arms crossed in front of her. "Is this what 'dinner' was really about?"

"Wait, what?" he asked, confused, as he rubbed the sting out of his cheek; hadn't she wanted to skip preliminaries?

"Did you ask me out," she said through angry, clenched teeth, "because you thought I'd be easy meat? 'Oh, sure, if she slept with Daniel—'"

"Bridget," he interrupted firmly, "that's what you said _you_ wanted."

She gaped. "When on earth did I say any such thing?"

"In your email."

Her mouth actually dropped further open in surprise. "In my email?"

"Yes," he said, then on an inspiration, thought of his laptop. "I can show you." He ducked for it, set it down on a nearby occasional table, woke it up then launched the client email program.

"My email was only to suggest a French or Italian restaurant for lunch on Wednesday," she said. "I can guarantee I did not offer myself up on the menu."

"Here it is. There."

He pointed to the _From: BJ_. He watched her eyes travel across the screen and widen slightly at the subject line.

Then she smiled. Then began to laugh.

He felt his brows come together; his ego was decidedly wounded.

"Mark," she explained. "That's not from me. That's a junk mail message. Spam."

He furrowed his brow. Not from her?

"I got ten of those myself with different initials in my junk folder over the last few days. I can show you." She went to her own computer, wiggled the mouse, clicked a few times then called him over. He followed, his laptop in hand, then glanced to where she pointed. There, in the Junk folder, amongst offers from African princes and for male-enhancement drugs, were a smattering of messages from AC, FR, CN… and the subject on all of them was similar, if not identical, to the subject of the message he had received.

He felt utterly humiliated.

"The body is blank," he offered feebly.

"It's a picture of a sexy girl," she said. "Maybe your program blocked the image." She chuckled again. "Sorry to laugh," she said. "It is a bit funny."

"Where's your message then?"

"Maybe it got stuck somewhere? Or maybe…" She sputtered another chuckle. "Check your junk folder?"

He held up his computer and did just that… and there he saw a message from Bridget.

_Subject: How about lunch on Weds? Italian?_

"I…" he began, then looked up to meet her eyes. "I don't know what to say. I am mortified beyond any words I could possibly offer in apology." He closed the computer, then walked back to stow it in his attaché. "I should go. I have offended you beyond all reason."

"You haven't," she said gently. "It was a mistake. A misunderstanding."

"I think I must," he said, then turned and reached for his overcoat.

"Mark, to make up for this supposedly grievous offence," she said, "I demand that you take me to dinner."

He turned back and saw a half-smile playing on her lips. He realised that the directive via email being nothing more than a misunderstanding had not quelled the feeling of attraction he felt; in fact, his interest in her _was_ more than just as a friend. If she were not truly offended by his unwanted advances, then there was no reason he shouldn't see her, but he hoped this would not pose a problem if the interest was not at all mutual.

"All right," he said at last. "Do you have some place in mind?"

Her smile widened. "How do you feel about Mexican food?"

She decided they should just walk to a place not far from her building, where there was a queue formed for a place a few doors down. "Trust me," she said as they reached the queue. "This is really good food, worth waiting for."

He glanced down the street to gauge the probability of its moving soon. "There is… seating, I hope?"

She chuckled. "Yes."

"You've been then?"

"Oh, yes. Fantastic. Though…" She made a show of inspecting his suit. "It may be a bit informal for your tastes."

"I'm open-minded." 

She smiled again. "This is good news." 

The queue moved a few steps.

"You know, I can't help but feel I've not apologised enough," he said quietly.

"It's all right," she said. " _Really_. Once it was all sorted… it was pretty funny. French-farce funny."

He was not totally convinced he had made it up to her, although she did seem genuinely amused. He still felt embarrassed.

As they got closer, Mark realised it was a little family restaurant, for which he was in fact wildly overdressed. The food was quite delicious, though in some respects a challenge to eat, particularly keeping the crispy shells of his tacos intact. He was not entirely successful; the contents seemed to explode onto his plate, though he was fortunate in that he didn't get any on his shirt or tie.

"Here," said Bridget, holding out a little pot of salsa. "Give this a try. It's quite good."

He held out one of the tortilla chips and dipped it in, taking a small nibble. As a consequence, his mouth felt like it had been lit on fire. Quickly he reached for his glass and took long gulps of cooling water.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said. "You're sensitive to hot chilli?"

"I am not fond of overly spicy food," he said, his breath unsteady.

"This calls for margaritas," she said. "My treat."

The drinks were enormous and made of blended ice, strawberries and quite a lot of tequila. They were exceedingly refreshing, though the alcohol was one Mark was not used to drinking, and he found himself a bit more tipsy than he was comfortable with. In response (and to hide the inebriation) he doubled up on expressing his contrition for the earlier gaffe, remaining humble and penitent.

He thought he was doing an adequate job of masking it—his hand was quite steady as he partook of his dessert of Mexican drinking chocolate and a churro—but as they left, as they undertook the walk back to Bridget's flat, she said to him, taking him by the arm, "I don't think you ought to drive just yet."

"I'm fine," he said.

"You aren't," she said with a light laugh. "You're utterly pissed."

"I'm not," he said defensively, which was unfortunately undermined by the fact that he lost his step and nearly fell against the wall.

"You are," she said. "Come on, you can come up and we can, I don't know, watch a little telly as you sober up."

He pursed his lips. "All right."

They slowly ascended the stairs of her flat, and with every step he realised how right she'd been. "It's okay," she said. "We can't let Tom have tequila, either. He hides under coffee tables and tries to kiss people's knees." She put her key into the door and let them into her flat.

"You are, I'm afraid, seeing the worst possible side of me tonight," he lamented. "I don't grope women without invitation, and I don't get plastered."

"I will know in future to keep you away from the tequila, too," she said soothingly, directing him towards her sofa. 

"I am so very sorry." He sat heavily onto the cushion.

She clucked her tongue. "You don't have to keep apologising," she said.

"How are you not affected?"

"Oh, I am," she said. "I'm probably just more of a regular lush than you are. Better at compensating." She winked. "I'll put on some coffee. But you should have water, too, or you will have Satan's own hangover for your Tuesday workday. Take me at my word when I say that is not fun at all."

He closed his eyes for what felt like a moment only to find her poking at his shoulder, sitting beside him with two mugs of coffee, one knee tucked under herself. 

"Here you are," she said. "Black coffee. Good for what ails you."

"You know that's not really sobering, black coffee, I mean."

"I know," she said. "But there's something about it that hits the spot."

He sipped and immediately found himself in agreement. "You make an excellent cup of coffee," he said, allowing the steam to fill his nose.

"That is the first compliment I've gotten in some time regarding something I've made in the kitchen," she said with a grin, leaning against the back of the sofa. "Thanks. Personally, I somehow think I'm better at making coffee when I'm pissed than sober."

He smiled, though felt morose over being so foolish to mistake a spam email message for an intimate invitation. "Sorry again," he muttered, cupping the coffee with both hands.

"For the love of God, Mark, I told you to stop bloody apologising," she said. "You've obviously not ruined anything. In fact…" She paused. "I find it quite endearing that you are still so troubled at the thought of offending me."

His face flushed with heat. Hoping to hide his embarrassment, he drank more coffee. "I just never would have… under ordinary circumstances… well. You know."

"What, acted like a typical fuckwit?" she said with a chuckle. "Just forget it ever happened."

He wished he could, but the fact was, despite his appalling behaviour, he could not forget how pleasurable it had been to have her lips pressed to his.

"All through with your coffee too?"

He blinked and realised he had. "Yes."

He handed her the empty mug and as she rose to set them down and grab the telly remote, evidence of her own lack of sobriety kicked in; she lost her balance and fell back onto the couch, and half into his lap.

"Oh, God, I am…" She turned, trying to extricate herself. He took her by the shoulder to help her, but she remained where she was, her gaze fixed to his. "…sorry," she finished in a near-whisper.

She then stunned him by leaning forward and kissing him.

There was a split second where he did not quite know how to react, at least not consciously, but his subconscious seemed to know exactly what to do; he pulled her close to him, put his arms around her, and returned every kiss.

She then pushed herself away, her hand covering her mouth. "I shouldn't have done that," she said in a tone that suggested she had just smothered a puppy. "You're pissed, _and_ you're married." It was only technically true, but before he could say anything, she added, "I mean, I know you're on the way to being divorced, but I shouldn't make things more complicated or give you mixed signals—I mean, I slapped you for doing the exact same thing before!—but you just looked like, I don't know, like you needed a kiss, you know?"

He reminded himself that she was still a little pissed, too, and allowed her the verbal ramble. "Are you quite done?"

"Yes," she said. "Wait, why?"

"I just wanted to suggest we try once more," he said, "when we don't feel like one is imposing on the other. Just a kiss. Because, you know, I'd like it if we could maybe, er… not skip the dating."

The change in her expression told him that she immediately recognised the words from the spam email. She went from utter mortification to a very pretty smile. "Well, I suppose I could be open to one more try," she said. "Compatibility is important in dating."

With that her lips were upon his again; he was not sure if she moved forward, if he did, or if they both did, but knowing there was complete acquiescence for the kiss they now shared did something to make it that much more enjoyable. He drew her close to him, ran his fingers through her hair, heard her sigh… and knew he had to back down gently before they took things too far. He stroked her hair, her back, with gentle caresses as he held her in a silent embrace.

"I dare say," she whispered, "there is ample compatibility."

He laughed low in his throat. "A good thing in a prospective date."

"A very good thing." After a moment she added, "Want to come to a party with me on Friday night?"

"I would very much like that," he murmured. His cheek rested against the hair near her temple. "And lunch on Wednesday? Italian or French. Your choice."

He could feel the laughter rather than hear it. "Italian, I think."

"Sounds good."

She then pulled away. "A little telly, then?" she asked, scooping the remote up again. "I don't think you're ready to drive just yet."

He agreed. She swivelled around to take her former position, though much closer to him. Within a few minutes she was resting against him; in a few minutes more they were making out like a couple of school kids. Nothing had ever been quite so sobering for him as a kiss this enjoyable, even though he knew he could go no further than a kiss that night. _Especially_ because he knew this.

By the time the film to which they'd switched was nearly over, she began to yawn as he realised he was fully sober. He also felt like he was able to joke about what had happened earlier: "I had a very nice time, although not quite the one I had envisioned." This made her laugh. She walked with him to the door; he took her hand to squeeze it. "I'm looking forward to lunch on Wednesday."

"Me too," she said. Then she got up onto her toes and gave him a quick kiss. "Drive safely. Drink more water when you get home."

"I will."

He put on his coat and gathered up his attaché before returning to the car to head home, or at the very least he must have, though he had no recollection of actually doing so. His mind was distracted from consideration of these mundane tasks by the thought that he suddenly might actually have a girlfriend, just a little more than a fortnight after he'd kicked out his wife.

………

Wednesday's lunch was like an oasis in the middle of the workweek; the Italian restaurant she'd chosen was like a well-kept secret in town that she'd let him in on. They had pasta and wine and he had to try very hard to remember he should keep his hands off of hers while they were in public, for propriety's sake. They parted with friendly smiles and she was about to get out of the car when she leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. "See you on Friday," she said before slipping from the passenger seat.

From the moment he rose on Friday, thoughts of attending the party with Bridget that night filled his head, which he knew was pretty ridiculous considering he was approaching forty at a gallop.

Just before lunch, the phone rang. It was his assistant, Rebecca.

"Your… wife is here to see you," she said in a foreboding tone.

"Send her in," he said in a cool, clipped voice.

The smile on her face as she closed the door behind her set quiet alarm bells off. "Hello, Mark," she said.

"To what do I owe this unexpected visit?" he asked, hoping she'd cut directly to the chase. She bore a plain manila folder. He hoped it was signed paperwork.

"I have something I'd like you to see. I found it very interesting, myself. I was put onto this after a very interesting conversation with a friend of a friend, one who happened to attend a dinner party on Sunday night. Decided to hire someone to do a little digging on my behalf." She opened the folder and threw down a stack of photographs. "What do you think?"

He picked them up and thumbed through them; pictures in front of Bridget's flat, of the two of them going to dinner, returning to her flat; then more during full daylight, laughing and conversing during the lunch on Wednesday, and the unmistakable kiss on the cheek as she left the car.

"What do I think?" he echoed. He looked up to her from where he still sat at his desk. "I think it's evidence that I took Bridget out for dinner and then for lunch long after I began divorce proceedings."

"You and the whore. I was right." She smiled smugly. "I'm willing to not make a fuss," she said in a very measured tone, "if you're very generous with alimony, and give me the house."

"There is no fuss to make," he said, setting the photos down and tenting his fingers, keeping rein on his rage. "This is not proof of anything occurring before I initiated the divorce. On the other hand, I have a signed affidavit from Daniel swearing that your affair with him began, well, long before that." The statement about the affidavit was not true, but she didn't need to know the actual document had not yet been drawn up. Or that the phone call had yet to be made. But he was certain Daniel would do this much for him. 

Her face went crimson, her eyes lit with the fire of her anger. 

"How's the job hunt going?" he asked placidly.

"You son of—"

Abruptly he stood, startling her into silence. "You have no right to speak to me like that," he said, still in that even tone, though his own fury was quite evident, "when this is all your own doing. Now take this attempt at blackmail with you, call off your detective. I don't want to see or talk to you unless you're bringing me signed divorce papers."

She bit back whatever it was she wanted to say in response, grabbed the stack of photos from his desk, shoved them into the folder, turned on her heel and left.

Mark let out a long breath and sat again. He looked to his blotter and saw that she had missed one of the snapshots, a candid one of Bridget smiling. He held it up and smiled a little in response before setting it up against his desk lamp. He then reached for the telephone and dialled Pemberley Press. No time like the present.

"Cleaver speaking."

"It's Mark."

He did not reply right away, which did not surprise him in the least. "Mark. It's… nice to hear from you. What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I was wondering if it might be convenient for you to come down to chambers and… well. I need a sworn statement about when the affair began, to support my petition."

For a few seconds there was nothing from him, and Mark wondered if perhaps he had assumed wrongly. "I should have guessed," he said at last. "Sure. I can come right away."

Relief flooded through him. "Terrific."

"I'll bring coffee."

"Thanks. See you then."

He set down the phone, exhaling roughly again.

Shortly after eleven, Daniel arrived with two tall black coffees and a short cappuccino for Rebecca, who showed him in. "I haven't forgotten," he said, winking to her as he handed her the drink.

"Thank you, Mr Cleaver," she said, accepting it. She had a pad of paper with her to take notes, and she took a chair near the desk. "It's been a while since you've been around."

Daniel glanced to Mark sheepishly. "Yeah, well, you're about to find out why."

Mark did not think there was anything else to further shock or surprise him, but he was wrong: Daniel began the account of their affair well before Jo and Mark were even married. Mark was glad he was already sitting down.

"It was she who approached me," Daniel said in a pensive tone. "I can really offer no explanation or excuse other than to say I have a weakness when it comes to women, and I was foolish not to resist. Repeatedly." He sipped his coffee. "It was no love affair. For me it was purely sex. And I told her, shortly after the new year, that we had to stop seeing each other. That's when I realised it was not purely sex for her. She got jealous when I began to see Bridget… and that was why everything came to a head." He looked to Mark. "I am sorry."

Mark didn't say anything, only offered a directive to Rebecca: "Rebecca, that would have been three weeks ago today, if you'll please include the calendar date. And omit the apology to me in the final affidavit."

"Yes, sir." She rose, gathering up her tablet and cappuccino.

"Thank you." To Daniel he said, "She'll draw it up, I'll look it over, and then you can sign it. If you don't mind waiting."

"It's the least I can do."

The silence after Rebecca left was tangibly awkward.

"I meant it," said Daniel at last, referring to his apology. "I should have had the strength to resist."

"If you had," he said quietly, "she probably would have found someone else. It doesn't speak well for the strength of our relationship, our marriage, from the very beginning." He turned his gaze to Daniel. "I know you did not intend to hurt our friendship, but you did, and it'll be a while before I can forgive that."

"I understand," Daniel said. "It's enough right now for me to know you are considering forgiving me."

The rap at the door told Mark that Rebecca was done with the statement for Daniel to sign. "Come in," Mark called.

After an appropriate review by Mark (no mistakes or errors, which hardly surprised Mark), Daniel read through then signed the paper, followed by Mark and Rebecca as witnesses. "Well. I hope this helps," Daniel said as he stood again. "I'm not blameless, but everything that's happening, she brought on herself."

"Agreed."

Rebecca returned to her desk, closing the door behind herself. Daniel held out his hand and Mark could not think of a reason to refuse a handshake. As they shook, Daniel glanced to the side, to Mark's desk. "What's that, then? Is that Bridget?"

Daniel had spotted the snapshot. "It is."

"Is that… is that you with her?"

"Yes," he said. "We had lunch Wednesday."

Daniel's brows rose. "Huh," he said, then smiled a little. "Well, understandable, I suppose, that you should turn to one another after all of this. She has seemed happier this week. But where did the picture come from?"

"Jo hired a private detective to follow me, trying to find some way to paint me in a bad light," Mark said. 

Daniel muttered, "Mental."

"A friend of a friend of Jo's was at a dinner party that Bridget and I both happened to attend."

"What a coincidence," he said, obviously sceptical.

"It was."

Daniel still looked dubious. "Goodbye, Mark. And good luck."

Mark sat in deep thought for many moments in the silence of his now empty office, considering what Daniel had said, or rather, what it implied, the same thing he had feared from the very start: this budding mutual attraction with Bridget was some kind of rebound fling, a simple matter of finding comfort in one another's arms after being scorned by their respective partners: _understandable, I suppose, that you should turn to one another after all of this_.

He reached into his pocket for his phone and dialled her mobile number. She didn't pick up. She probably couldn't while at work, and in fact, he had been counting on it; if he'd talked to her he might have lost his resolve.

"Bridget," he said. "It's Mark. Something's come up. I can't come with you to the party tonight. Sorry for the short notice. Hope you have a nice time. Goodbye." He rang off, then stowed the mobile back into his pocket with a heavy sigh. He had rather been looking forward to seeing her, to attending the party with her, but not for the wrong reasons.

A few minutes later his mobile began to ring. As expected, it was Bridget. He didn't answer, because he knew if he did, his resolve would weaken and he'd give in to going with her. He was relieved that she didn't leave a message.

The evening was dull; his takeaway was less than stellar, and Friday night telly was so abysmal he ended up switching it off. He turned to check his email, which was a mistake.

              _To: Mark Darcy_  
              _From: Bridget Jones_  
              _Subject: I think I understand_  
              _Daniel came back to the office & made some mention of a private detective hired by Jo, taking pictures of us at lunch?? Freak. Anyway. Sorry to not see you tonight because of it. xx_

He shouldn't have responded. He should have allowed her to believe he was keeping his distance because of Jo. He didn't like lying to her, though.

              _From: Mark Darcy_  
              _To: Bridget Jones_  
              _Subject: Re: I think I understand_  
              _Yes, she did, but no, that isn't why I can't see you. I'm sorry._

She must not have gone to the party at all, because a few minutes later, he had a reply.

              _What do you mean? Like… ever?_

He didn't reply. His phone rang; he didn't answer her call. She left a message this time, though he didn't listen to it. She called twice more, then the phone did not ring again.

It was for the best, before they became too involved to see it for what it really was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that earns the rating. Ahem.
> 
> Sorry for the, erm, _delayed gratification_. Had painful, vise-like headache most of last night. (Think it was from concentrating during the 'identify the BJD quote' competition.) And thank you for the comments that (again) I am behind on responding to.

For the next two weeks, life trudged on for Mark, though far more dully and solitary than it had been with Bridget around. Jo had grudgingly backed down from disputing the divorce and began cooperating; she'd had little choice after Daniel's damning affidavit. It looked more and more probable that since she had been the adulterous one, since she had not been employed during the marriage, he would not be obliged to pay her a single pound. Mark looked forward to the completion of the divorce procedure, to being totally free from her in his life.

It was again a Friday when Mark went to leave his office and came nearly face to face with Jeremy's wife. He expected a friendly greeting, a hello, or a smile; he did not expect her, as she approached, to frown then to rear her arm back to hit him with her purse.

"Hey!" He raised his arms defensively. "What's this about?"

"You _jerk_!" she hissed, continuing to smack him with the purse. "I swear she's more upset over _you_ than Daniel!"

"What?"

" _Bridget_ , you idiot!" 

"Stop hitting me," he said, reaching then clasping her wrist. "Yes, I figured Bridget. She's still upset?"

"She nearly cut off all of her hair, Mark!" Magda said. Jeremy now came close apprehensively. " _Very_ bad business, Mark, and I'm _very_ put out with you."

"I'm sorry," he said, "and I told her so. I have a divorce in progress… she split from Daniel… the last thing either of us needs is to get involved on the rebound."

Magda stood there, gawking in a most undignified manner. "You really take the cake, Mark Darcy. Bridget is _not_ rebounding, particularly not about Daniel. She liked him enough, he was fun to pass an afternoon with, but… Jesus, it's not like she was in love with the bounder or anything." 

Jeremy placed his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Mags, don't murder the only human rights barrister in chambers, please," he joked. "And it's not like you truly were in love with that ice-bitch soon-to-be-ex-wife, were you, Mark?"

Mark let go of her wrist, stunned by Jeremy's acute observation—he hadn't been, had he?—and as a result, she lowered her purse. Her expression, her voice softened. "You really hurt her feelings."

"I didn't mean to."

"Well, you should tell her," Magda said. "That is, if she'll deign to speak to you. Not sure I would in her place." She narrowed her eyes. "And that's all you should say if you really think you're rebounding, because she really doesn't need more fuckwittage from you right now."

"Magda," said Jeremy.

She exhaled impatiently. "Sorry. Not very mature of me, but I'm a bit riled up."

"I'll talk to her," Mark said. "I promise."

He went back into his office not only for the privacy but for the protection from Magda and her deadly purse. He palmed his mobile, scrolled to Bridget's number in his contacts list, then pressed Call. It rang five times before rolling over to voice mail. He disconnected, dialled once again, and got the same result.

He suspected she might have been giving him the silent treatment, just as he'd done to her. Not that he didn't deserve it.

Then he spotted his laptop where he'd left it on his desk. He sat and composed an email.

              _To: Bridget Jones_  
              _From: Mark Darcy_  
              _Subject: Fuckwittage—guilty as charged_  
              _I thought—hoped—that would get your attention._  
              _I was only thinking we might both benefit from stepping back, since it seemed that we were both on the rebound_

He stared at the second paragraph he'd typed, then erased it and began again, gambling on a different tack.

              _I was wrong, particularly as I very much still wanted to see you, and still do. Magda just about beat me to a pulp with her handbag just now because you're still smarting._  
              _I am very sorry. If you would be so gracious as to allow me to make it up to you… dinner tonight? Please let me know._  
              _Mark_

He clicked Send. Then he waited.

He got a reply within a few minutes.

              _To: Mark Darcy_  
              _From: Bridget Jones_  
              _Subject: Re: Fuckwittage—guilty as charged_  
              _I'm going to throttle Magda… even if you sort of deserved the handbag treatment._

He chuckled.

              _But… you made me laugh just now. Didn't try to make excuses. And I do still want to see you, despite said fuckwittage. So… yes. Meet me at my flat at six and we'll talk about further poss. penance.—B xx_

He smiled, then sat back in his seat with a sigh of relief before he reached up to close the laptop. He hadn't needed to grovel, justify, or plead his case; he needed only to apologise. It was a welcome change from standard operating procedure when it came to things (actual or perceived) that set Jo's temper off. His smile broadened.

He was pulled from this little reverie when his desk phone began to ring.

"Mark Darcy," he said in greeting.

"It's half five, Mark. Don't you think you ought to leave?"

He chuckled. Bridget. "So it is. I'm on my way." He left his laptop behind.

About halfway to her flat he decided he should bring a peace offering. He was able to find a florist on the crest of shuttering up for the night, and was able to buy a fistful of fragrant freesia stalks wrapped elegantly with a pale blue ribbon.

He was fortunate enough to find a spot to park kerbside within reasonable walking distance, miraculous for a Friday night. He walked to the front of the building and rang her entryphone.

"You're late."

He glanced to his watch and laughed. It was three minutes past six. "There's a first for everything," he said. "I think I have an adequate excuse."

There was a moment of silence, then he heard the lock click and release. "Come on up."

The level of anticipation as he scaled the stairs was really quite extraordinary to him. He was an adult, nearing forty (as he'd previously reminded himself time and again)… and was behaving like a schoolboy. _There really is a first for everything_ , he thought as he raised his hand to knock on the door, but, just like it had at Magda's, the door swung open to reveal her standing there, dressed as she likely had been for work, wearing a pale blue blouse, black mini, and in opaque stocking feet; her hair was pinned up in an attractively messy fashion, fringe framing her face and drawing as much attention to her blue eyes as the blouse did. He hadn't realised quite how much he'd missed seeing her until he did see her again; her smile broadened, reflecting his own.

"Hi," she said. 

"You seem to have a knack for doing that," he said. He held up the flowers. "These are for you."

"Thanks," she said, sniffing them. "Lovely. Come on in."

They went up in to the flat proper where she pulled down a small vase for the flowers. Once she got them into water, she faced him again, and that was Mark's cue to speak, and when he did he wanted to get it all out, not excuses or justifications, but explanations: "Let me apologise again for being a world-class, er, fuckwit. I assumed—"

She held her hand up once more, this time to briefly place a finger on his lips. "Shush. I told you I rather liked the fact you didn't make excuses."

"So you don't want to know—"

"Shh."

"—that I was only trying—"

" _Mark_."

"—to keep us from getting hurt."

"You failed miserably," she said with a half smile. "Now stop it before I take it back." She then added, "Forgiving you, I mean."

"I was only concerned about the possibility of acting on the—"

 _Rebound_ , he thought, but did not say it, primarily because she reached up, put her hand on the back of his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss. Remaining thoughts flew from his head as he took her in his arms and pulled her up against him. What he'd felt at the door about missing her paled in comparison to this. After many moments in this bliss she stroked his face and drew back to stand flat on her feet.

"I missed you terribly, too," she said, stepping back. "Now we're past the greetings, how about that dinner?"

In his eagerness to see her, he had not given dinner a second thought. This must have showed on his face, because she burst out laughing.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't get a whole lot of time to plan something that would take your breath away."

The moment he said it he realised the potential double meaning. She only smiled, her brow flicking up in amusement. "'Take my breath away,' eh?" Then she laughed lightly. "Right now a pepperoni pizza and a glass of wine would do the trick."

"What's your favourite place for pizza then?"

"Mmm, I have a few," she said. "Only one does a delivery though."

The comment, along with the fact that she was not wearing shoes… it dawned on him that maybe she preferred to stay in.

"If you want to do delivery," he said tentatively, "why don't you go on and place the order, and I can pour the wine?"

She smiled again, and offered a little nod. "Best of all possible worlds. Good food, the comfort of home, and the company of…. Well. _Your_ company."

Their gazes were fixed upon one another so long that Mark began to think it would take an act of God to get them to their separate tasks, but somehow they summoned the willpower. She made the call while he poured white wine. He then took the glasses to the sitting room and set hers down near her favourite spot on the end of the sofa. He took the same chair he'd used the first time he'd visited; despite the previous intimacy of the kisses they had shared, he did not want to make assumptions.

"There we are, all set, should be here in thirty minutes or so," she said as she came into the room. She then smirked in amusement. "You _can_ sit next to me, you know," she said, sitting so that her feet were tucked beneath herself. 

He rose to take a seat next to her, setting his own wine down, then asked, "Why is that funny?"

"It's just adorable, really," she said.

"Adorable?" he asked, bristling more than he meant to.

She laughed abruptly. "It's adorable and sweet that you give me the choice." Her expression changed to one of thoughtfulness, then impishness. "Would I offend your sensibilities if I did this?" She leaned towards him, raising up on her knees a little, put her arm around his shoulders, and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

"'Offend' is not the word I'd use, no," he said evenly, meeting her gaze.

"Hmm. Maybe I need to try harder."

With that she raised herself again, only this time, she leaned up against him, combed her fingers into his hair and lowered her head for a longer kiss. _Definitely not offended_ , he thought, lost in the sensation of her nails raking over his skin, her mouth softly claiming kiss after kiss—then the surprise as she swung her leg over to straddle and sit upon his lap, pinning him against the back of her sofa. His hands rose to settle on her waist, but did not stay there for long, trailing up and down the length of her back, then moving over her backside, where he, somewhat involuntarily, pressed his hands into her.

She made a soft, sexy sound in her throat, breaking from the kiss, raising her chin to the sky, to which he felt compelled to place his lips on the side her neck, kissing her there, taking the lobe tenderly between his teeth before moving his attention downward to the hollow of her throat. His fingers rose to fumble with the topmost fastened button, and once it was released, he pushed the fabric aside to explore further.

He opened the next button. And the next. Before he knew it he was holding her tightly, hands pressed to her shoulder blades, his face buried in the sweet velvet skin of her breasts, his tongue darting out between them, his teeth grazing her skin. All the while she made soft sounds of utter pleasure; her fingers threaded into his hair and grazed small circles. He wanted her desperately, more than he would have ever guessed he could, and could not get enough of her. It was all he could do not to press her back against the arm of the sofa and—

She tensed up. He stopped what he was doing and looked up to her; she had her head turned and cocked. In a moment he realised why. Her entryphone was buzzing. Pizza delivery.

"Fuck," she muttered, looking back to him. "Worst timing ever." She smoothed down his hair and leaned to give him a quick kiss before pushing herself back and off of his lap. 

She answered the entryphone, holding the receiver between her chin and shoulder while she hastily did up her blouse buttons, then pressed the lock release. "You can get my wallet from my suit jacket pocket," he called; nothing could induce him to stand at that moment. She threw him a sympathetic smile that made him flush red.

She grabbed her purse, reached in for a twenty pound note, and then went down the stairs to open the flat door, disappearing from his sight. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, willing the passion in his blood to cool. The fact that she had not taken his cash as he'd directed helped this endeavour; dinner was supposed to be his contrition to her.

"Of all the days for them to get here sooner than thirty minutes," she said. He sat upright again.

"I would have paid," he said.

She made a dismissive sound. "You paid for lunch."

"It was supposed to be me buying you dinner in penance."

She said, "You can make it up in other ways." Then she winked, resuming her seat on the couch with her legs tucked up beneath her as she first had done. She rested the pizza box between the two of them. "Who needs plates?" she asked, taking a slice.

"When you go informal, you go all the way," he joked.

She bit into it with a little grin, then after washing it down with a sip of wine, she said with a wink, "I'm a classy dame, as they say in old pictures."

He laughed lightly as he took a slice for himself. As pizza went it wasn't the best he'd had, but it served the purpose well enough and oddly enough it went well with the wine they were drinking.

"Yes," she said. "I spent a _lot_ of time trying to determine which wine went best with pizza."

She asked about his day, and he asked about hers; the further away they got from the heat of the moment, the more Mark realised it was far too soon for them to be sleeping together. It wasn't a question of want, because every bone in his body had ached with desire for her, and the fact that she'd literally jumped into his lap to initiate the snogging session spoke volumes about her own desire.

Emotionally, however—he was still very concerned that, unwittingly or not, they were both on the rebound from their failed relationships; despite what Magda had said, he thought Bridget's feelings for Daniel had been fairly strong, and there was the added strain of still working with her now ex in close proximity every day. It was natural to seek comfort from someone who had been there. He liked to think he was beyond this base reaction, but he also knew the lengths the human mind would go to in order to justify something. He also thought of Bridget as more than a friend. He cared about her a great deal.

Which was why he was willing to do whatever he could to keep either of them from getting hurt.

They each had a couple of slices before Bridget picked up the almost-empty box and tossed it towards the table that sat across from the sofa. The box landed, wobbled a bit, but miraculously stayed put. He grinned; he got the impression she'd done this manoeuvre before. She finished her wine, set the glass down, and turned to face him. There was definitely expectation— _anticipation_ —in her eyes.

"Bridget," he said quietly. "As much as I… well, I… don't think we should sleep together already."

She drew her brows together and pouted. "Why not?"

The almost petulant, whiny way she said it made him chuckle a little. "I'm in process of a divorce. You haven't been split up from… from Daniel that long. I'd prefer not to rush things."

She nodded in a way that suggested she was considering his words but not necessarily agreeing with them; she pulled her lower lip between her teeth in a contemplative manner. Then she opened her mouth slightly, wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue, got up onto her knees and leaned towards him.

What happened next—her fingers at the nape of his neck, her lips decidedly trying to make his cooperate, her knee suddenly between his legs and maddeningly close to him—was at the same time a blur and an eternity. He resisted, or a least he tried to tell himself he should, but she was so soft, so warm, so responsive… 

In all honesty he didn't put up much of a fight.

He had the buttons open again, this time to her waist, and was fumbling with the front clasp of the bra; she was beneath him surrounded by linens, and as the clasp came loose he realised they had, quite without his conscious realisation of it, migrated to her bedroom. The feel of her skin beneath the pads of his fingers, the roundness of her breast in his palm, obliterated any thoughts questioning how this had happened. He bent to kiss the tip, to roll a tongue over the hard point, and as he did she groaned and arched her back. He was at the same time eager to make love to her, yet anxious that he would be unable to satisfy her as she was satisfying him; ecstatic, yet painfully aware of how marrying a woman he doubted he'd ever truly loved had deprived him of lusciousness like this. 

The desperate way she said his name snapped him out of continuing an avid exploration of her navel; he tugged the skirt down, tugged off the tights and pants and tossed them impatiently away towards the floor. She twisted and strained to reach for the nightstand. He knew what she was after, and he could better find what he needed. After all, there were clothes of his own to discard.

Once that dual task was completed, he returned to her, took her into his arms, kissed her again, and proceeded to utterly lose himself in her. He was aware only of her hot breath on his neck, her hands on his skin, her body pressed to his. Impatiently he turned so that she was beneath him, and he parted her knees with an insistent hand. Then he was against her, above her, _in_ her, moaning in concert to his rhythmic thrusts, nails on his back, and—

He'd hoped to bring and sustain her pleasure a bit more before reaching climax, but the fact was after having been so long deprived of arousing, satisfying intercourse with an engaging, sexy, sensual partner… he knew he was not going to be capable of holding back. He felt it building like a tidal wave, anticipated the final crest, when to his surprise she cried out, pressing her nails almost painfully into his back, clutching around him in tight waves again and again. Then, with a final thrust he came, moaning, almost growling low in his throat.

Breathlessly she said something that sounded to him like, "Oh my _God_." As of the tone wasn't indication enough, she was clearly pleased given the satiated smile, the dreamy quality of her eyes, the rosiness of her cheeks. "I… _wow_." She drew in a deep breath, her chest heaving upward, then exhaled slowly. 

He found he had no words for the moment; he only drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. Even as he did, doubts of the wisdom of what they'd done began to creep back in. He should have resisted. He should have waited. And yet, even as he had these thoughts, his hands smoothed over her back to her bottom, then up again. She hummed low in her throat, almost like a cat purring.

He then raised his hand to comb her hair back from her face, but in the flood of endorphins forgot that she'd had her hair pinned up. Quickly his hand was entangled in her hair, and it took him a moment to get it free without tugging too much on it. By the time he did, she was giggling, and he couldn't help his own low, throaty laughter. Once he had his hand free, he began to pluck the pins from her hair, one by one, and after he had them all out, he threaded his fingers through her hair again.

 _Much better_ , he thought as he leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes, feeling the fatigue of his efforts washing over him.

To his astonishment, she pulled herself up to rest on the pillow next to him, eyes twinkling, impish smile teasing the corner of her mouth. She traced her fingertips along his collarbone, then up to follow the curve of his lower lip. She further surprised him by pushing him so that he was fully on his back, then rolled that she was atop him. With no further prelude, she lowered her head and kissed him, and it was not a sweet, chaste peck, but an aggressive, passionate kiss that revived him instantly; her hair tickling his face added to the zinging sensation through to his toes.

As she manoeuvred herself into what was quickly becoming a familiar and clearly favoured position straddling his waist, he skimmed his fingers along her skin. She took complete control this time, lavishing him with languorous kisses and maddening caresses… and the shock of it was that he allowed her. With a few more adjustments—primarily, another visit to the nightstand, and more pillows at his back—she was once more astride him, and she wasted no time drawing herself up and onto him, moaning as she did.

He felt like the world around him was trembling, though it could have been a combination of the adrenaline coursing through his body and the shaking of the bed caused by her energetic movements. His hands pressed tightly into her hips, pulling her down into his upward thrusts, hearing each one of them elicit a small combination of gasp and moan. These excited sounds grew ever rapid, and when she fiercely took his mouth again with her own, he knew she was close to the edge.

Just as he thought there were no more surprises in store for him that evening, she broke from the kiss, reached over and took his hand. "Need you to do something," she whispered, meeting his gaze with her own… then placed his fingers against where their bodies joined, pressed them into her, gasping as his fingertips found their intended target. With his free arm around her waist, hand splayed against the small of her back, she quickly resumed her previous pace, flooding his ears with the beautiful music of her building climax. When she cried out he pressed even harder, causing her to gasp and bow upwards into him.

When at last her climax was complete—multiple, if he had to wager, which did delightful things to his ego—she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again, slowly, almost torturously so. Then she exhaled and collapsed against him, grazing her nails down his chest to his abdomen, then to points further down. "I can't leave you hanging," she said breathlessly, then twitched her hips in counterpoint to the motion of her hand. 

The combination excited him more than he ever thought it might; within a few moments, along with the gentle nip she delivered to his lower lip, he found his release, pulling on her hips again, thrusting more deeply into her. This elicited another groan from her before she kissed him once more.

The pull of slumber was becoming stronger, so before anything untoward could occur he sat up with her in his arms. She seemed to take the meaning and gently drew herself from him. Without words she settled back onto the mattress, and he spooned up behind her, arm around her, nose pressed into the dampened hair at her temple.

"Could murder for a shower," she murmured, but he didn't have the energy to move… nor did she, apparently, as evidenced by the fact he woke again just before midnight from a sleep he didn't recall slipping into, and she hadn't moved, either.

He smiled, chuckling softly, shifting slightly in order to rise from the bed without waking her. He was just a few steps away from the bedroom door—leaving for the loo—when he heard a soft little wolf-whistle from behind him. He could feel the heat of his embarrassment flooding his skin, and he turned to look at her. She was grinning playfully.

"Very nice," she said, her voice a bit gravelly.

He noted how wonderfully the intruding moonlight played upon her own skin, and said, "You aren't so bad yourself."

She chuckled. "Coming back, I hope?"

He nodded. "Can't imagine I'd get very far in this state."

"Good," she said, then said again, "Good. Oh, will you bring the pizza box back? I'm ravenous."

He did as she asked and they enjoyed the remaining few slices before a quick shower; they then returned to the bedroom for another round that resembled something closer to lovemaking than they'd achieved before—more patient, certainly, and definitely no less enjoyable.

Afterwards, he held her close again, revelling in her warmth and her softness. "You know," he murmured, "still don't want to skip the dating."

She made a quiet sound of amusement. "Glad to hear. Very sweet." She lifted then settled her cheek back down on his chest; he tightened his arm about her. "So," she said, "you're a snuggler."

"A what?"

"A snuggler. You know. You like to snuggle up after."

It was his turn to chuckle. "Actually, I haven't traditionally been a… snuggler."

She snorted a little laugh. "Could've fooled me," she said. "You're a champion snuggler." She sighed. "It's too bad circumstances kept us from meeting sooner," she said. "Would've been nice to, I don't know…" She trailed off, seemingly not able to complete her thought.

He knew what she meant, though, and he said, "Mm-hm."

"Hm," she said. "You know, we'll never be able to tell a soul. I mean, back home. Especially my mother. The thought of me dating a divorced man… she'll want to stuff you into the oven instead of the turkey."

The thought sent his blood to chilling. He froze. "What?"

"Oh yes, quite against divorce, my parents are," she went on. 

"Oh, God," he said.

"Yes. Next New Years Day we'll have a _you_ -curry-buffet."

It was the first hint that she might be teasing, he looked down just as she looked up, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're a bit devilish," he said.

"Just a bit?" she said. "May have to work harder at it."

Gently he pinched her bottom, which caused her to squeak. "That's for scaring me."

"And I may stuff you into the oven myself," she said. "Hm, a sneak preview is required." He didn't know what she meant, but then she reached over and playfully grazed her teeth over his shoulder—as if she was trying to take a bite out of him—then added, "Hm. A bit gamey, but you'll do."

With this it seemed all out war was declared—at the very least, a war of the pillow variety—and a playful tussle ensued, with much giggling and shrieking on Bridget's part, until Mark gained the upper hand, both literally and figuratively. 

"Let's see if _you're_ gamey," he said, then teasingly nipped at her backside.

"Not lean enough to be gamey," she said breathlessly, arching to look behind herself at him.

He met her gaze with a smile. "And thank God for it," he said, gently biting again, then again, then kissed the skin there. She offered a little moan. He placed a second there, than another, fingers stroking her thigh, tongue venturing out against her skin. As she rolled over, his teeth skimmed her hip. He looked up, and once again their gazes met, hers level and steady. 

The tussle had most assuredly turned into something altogether different.

The frankness of her look told him she had no objections or cautions, and he was glad for it; he had always thought that what he now contemplated was overrated, and his previous partners had not been all that keen on his trying, but right now, he wanted nothing more.

He touched his lips to her inner thigh, just where her pants elastic might have rested. She sighed and shifted her legs. He touched his tongue to her once more, clasped her hips, and traced along her skin with it; he then flattened it against the velvet there. She gasped, bucked, then groaned as he pressed harder down on her, into her. With every stroke her moans and whimpers escalated, her hands fiercely clutched the bed sheets. There was no mistaking when she came. Her cries undulated out of her in time with her climax.

His name issued from her in a barely audible whisper as he crawled up close to her again, stroking her hair.

She looked at him with still-focusing eyes. "You must be…" she began.

"Unsatisfied?" he asked. "Hardly."

"I was going to say 'aching for relief,'" she murmured, and even as she was still trying to catch her breath, she reached down and brushed her fingers against that very solid evidence; involuntarily he twitched into her. "I can't possibly leave you this way."

"You don't have to—"

 _Return the favour_ was what he'd intended to say—the women he'd known had found it repellent—but she only grasped him and began to tug. He instantly lost the will to speak. As she did this in an increasingly rapid fashion, she kissed him, teasing his lips with her tongue. 

He barely held out one revolution around the circumference of his mouth by her delicate tongue tip before he lost all control and came. He was treated to soft murmurs and an extensively arduous kiss before she pulled the duvet over them, drew him to her and held him in her arms for a cuddle of her own. He settled his cheek just above her chest, one hand curving around her waist; he felt warm and slightly fuzzy-headed and more alive than he ever had.

"So much for that earlier shower," she teased after a peaceful silence, planting a kiss amongst the undoubtedly mussed hair on the top of his head. Feebly he chuckled. She continued, "Oh, you've quite a talent there, no doubt."

Her words were again a boost to an ego that had suffered when it came to sexual confidence and performance. No time for thoughts of that, though; not now, not ever again, if he could help it. "I'd happily have you in my buffet any time. Hold the curry."

She started to giggle. "That was really corny," she said in jest. At realising how right she was, he laughed too. 

"You know what?" he asked. "I'm not usually the laughing-in-bed type, either."

"No snuggling, no pillow fights… you poor deprived fellow. Well, the snuggling and laughing certainly suits you," she said. Fatigue started to creep into her voice, into his system. "As does… well, I would never have guessed you were a wolf in sheep's clothing. Or at the very least, a jungle panther in a staid suit." This amused him. "So what other surprises have you in store?"

After a beat, he confessed to her, in so many words, that he'd actually had very little practical experience doing what he'd just done to her.

"You filthy liar," she said drowsily. "Mm. Hope you had no plans this weekend."

He hummed an assent; he was suddenly too exhausted to offer a proper response or think of anything else. Her breath quickly slipped into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep just before he drifted off, too.

………

The glow of the sunlight brightening the room was what roused him to wakefulness. He had a moment of disorientation, but as soon as he saw Bridget asleep beside him, he instantly remembered everything about the night before. She was arched and twisted amongst the linens, still sound asleep, and he wondered how she could possibly be comfortable sleeping all bent up like an exhausted kitten after a tear around the house.

He chuckled, then reached to brush her hair from her face. She swatted at his hand as if she thought a fly was buzzing her face.

"Morning," he said quietly, then, glancing at her bedside clock, added, "or should I say afternoon."

Only then did she open her eyes, and did so slowly as if it were a great effort. As her eyes focused on him, she did something he was not quite expecting: she shrieked.

He backed away, his mind in a swirl. Had she really regretted their night? Was this a measure of her horror?

She then yanked the sheets up and over her head. "Don't look at me!" she said. "I shudder to think—streaky makeup, mad hair, foul, er, never mind—"

The relief he felt was immense. He pulled away the sheet, and she shrieked again. This time he chuckled. "You look lovely," he said, tucking a stray hank of hair behind her ear.

She pursed her lips, eyeing him sceptically. "You're a _convincing_ liar, anyway."

"Not a filthy one?"

"That too."

"I promise I'm not lying." He leaned forward and gave her a little kiss. "Care for a little breakfast?" he asked. "And sadly, we're out of pizza, so I have to take that off the table."

She laughed. "Lunch, more like," she said. She touched his face tenderly with her fingertips. "You know, I was having the most marvellous dream, but it's okay. I think this is better."

"Agreed," he said, placing his hand atop where hers rested on his cheek.

"Unfortunately," she said with a sudden sadness in her voice, "we shall have to abandon the bed sooner rather than later."

"What?" he asked. "Why?"

"Very tragic," she said, looking equally so. "The fact of the matter is that the nightstand is now… empty, shall we say."

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Come, I'll take you out for something to eat, we can talk…" He paused. "There are so many other things I want to know about you."

At this her smile softened. "You've… left me speechless, Mark Darcy."

He decided to take the victory and get the day moving. He threw back the sheets, and urged her up and out of bed. She tried to pull the sheet off to cover herself, but he prodded her along.

"But it's _daylight_!" she said.

"Yes…" he said. "Your point?"

They washed up once again, more studiously (and with fewer distraction) than the night before; a survey of the bedroom afterward yielded Mark's clothes from the day before, which were not in the best of shape.

"Everyone's going to know they were in a pile on the floor all night long."

"And everyone will know why," she said with a wink, "and be a little jealous of me."

He chuckled. "Rather, of me."

As she tapped powder onto her face, as he attempted to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt with his hands (and by force of sheer will), she asked, "So. Chocolate croissant sound good to you?"

"No," he said. She looked at him in alarm. "I mean, not right now. I was thinking something a little more substantial than pastry."

"Oh," she said. "Sure. I'm game."

"But not gamey," he retorted, surprising even himself.

She actually blushed.

_The end_


End file.
